


A Dangerous Delivery

by fredbassett



Series: A Dangerous Liaison (The Musketeers - 2014) [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6601315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Queen decides to visit a childhood friend in the country, the Musketeers are tasked with her safety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Athos jumped backwards, abruptly ending any pretence at not giving ground. 

His opponent’s sword flashed disconcertingly close to his chest in the last of a series of increasingly vicious thrusts and ripostes. Sweat clung to his body in the stifling heat, the scorching summer making the combat even harder to endure.

A water bucket went flying and Athos barely managed to bite back a curse as his left foot slid slightly on the cobbles, throwing him off balance and allowing a low-line attack to come uncomfortably close to his balls. 

“Taught the lad all he knows!” Porthos yelled in delight.

Athos just managed to bring his rapier down and deflect the blow but before he was able to draw breath for a rejoinder to Porthos, the thump of boots on the wooden steps announced Treville’s arrival in the yard.

“Enough, gentlemen. Athos, you’re to accompany me to the palace.”

Athos put his sword up and bowed deeply to d’Artagnan. If truth be told, the captain’s intervention had been timely. Their latest recruit’s skill was growing by the day. Athos had worked hard to cure him of the tendency to wildness that had been apparent in their first encounter; Porthos was steadily imparting his own brand of improvisation skills, accompanied by a vast array of dirty tricks learned in the underbelly of the city, while Aramis was teaching the precision needed to make every shot count. 

As a result, the raw, untrained Gascon farm boy who had made such a dramatic and unexpected entry to their lives now made a formidable opponent, and one that not even Athos could be certain of besting on every occasion.

D’Artagnan, a wide smile on his face, saluted Athos with a wave of his sword and an equally deep bow.

Athos quickly tossed aside the padded tunic worn for training bouts, pulled on his leather jacket and allowed Aramis to drape his blue cloak over his shoulders before falling into step beside Treville as they made their way out of the garrison.

“We’re summoned to the king,” Treville informed him.

“How fortunate our behaviour this past week has been impeccable.”

Treville shot him a sideways glance. “You’ve been involved in two duels with the Red Guard to my certain knowledge.”

Faced with the fact that their captain’s sources of information would put even the most diligent of spymasters to shame, Athos commented, “Those were brawls. More than two were involved on each side, so neither occasion constituted a duel. We remained within the law.”

“I thought I’d instructed you to keep your heads down, your swords in their scabbards and your power in the pouch?”

“They impugned the honour of the Regiment,” Athos said, trotting out their standard defence like a child clinging to a favourite toy. He turned to Treville and added, “Besides, we were bored.”

“That makes it all right then, does it?” Treville rolled his eyes. “Heaven forbid that the King’s Musketeers should be bored. However, I suspect that His Majesty intends to put an end to your ennui.”

“So we’re not being summoned to answer to the cardinal for showing his men the error of their ways?”

Treville shrugged. “Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea why we’ve been summoned, but no doubt we’ll soon find out.”

* * * * *

As Athos made his bow to the King and Queen, he could see that the look the cardinal was giving him could hardly be described as friendly, but it stopped just short of the open hostility that the sight of a blue cloak normally evinced in the man.

King Louis and Queen Anne had taken refuge from the heat in the wood-panelled library, normally one of the coolest rooms in the Louvre, but now it was almost as oppressive as the rest of the palace, indeed the rest of Paris. The strongly-scented orange pomander in the queen’s lap did little to mask the ever-present reek of bodily odours, and Athos was aware that after his bout with d’Artagnan, he was no doubt contributing to the miasma. His hair clung damply to his head and his shirt felt clammy with sweat under his leather jacket.

“Captain Treville, kindly convince the cardinal that your men are quite capable of keeping me safe,” the queen said, without preamble.

“I believe they have demonstrated that on more than one occasion, Your Majesty,” Treville said, glancing at Richelieu for an explanation.

“The Queen wishes to visit the Comtesse de Beaune,” Richelieu supplied.

“But the cardinal insists that the coffers have run dry,” the King said, a petulant look on his face that reminded Athos of a small child who had been refused an expensive present.

“A royal visit is not to be undertaken lightly, Your Majesty. Even allowing for the hospitality that could no doubt be called upon en route, to field the full complement of the Queen’s entourage would be a drain on scarce resources that the treasury can ill afford at the moment.”

“Then as I have already suggested, I shall travel quietly and without an entourage. I have not seen Hélène for some years, her baby is expected within the month and I would like to be with her at that time. Besides which, the heat of Paris is entirely too oppressive and is sapping my strength by the day…” The Queen turned to her husband, her eyes meeting his beseechingly.

“What Anne wants, Anne must have, Cardinal,” the king said. “I will not have you deny my queen this. I trust Captain Treville’s men with her safety and so should you. My musketeers have never once let me down.”

Athos kept his expression strictly neutral, which was more than his captain was managing. Treville was clearly torn between his desire to see the cardinal’s wishes thwarted and his innate caution when it came to matters of personal safety for those he was sworn to protect.

“I am sure we can reach an acceptable compromise on the size of Her Majesty’s retinue and guard,” Treville said, managing to project more confidence than he was probably feeling.

The King gave a delighted laugh and clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Anne, my dear, you shall have the respite from the heat of Paris that you have been craving. That’s settled then.” He beamed indiscriminately at both Richelieu and Treville. “The Queen desires to leave within the week. Have messages sent to the Comtesse immediately.”

Athos, sensing dismissal, swept into another bow and backed from the room, followed by Treville. The cardinal lingered a moment longer, but the glacial smile on the Queen’s face when she looked at him and the indulgent expression on the King’s when he looked at her clearly did not encourage him to linger.

As the doors closed behind them, Richelieu turned to Treville and hissed, “This is madness! Less than a week to arrange a royal visit? That woman will bankrupt us all!”

Treville’s expression froze and the look he shot the other man was flint hard. “This is not a discussion for a corridor, Armand. Your office or mine?”

Richelieu’s eyes narrowed at the use of his given name. “Mine,” he responded, black robes sweeping around him as he turned without waiting for a response and strode away, looking like a carrion crow in flight.

For the second time that day, Athos fell into step beside Treville as they followed him.

* * * * *

“You can’t rely on secrecy; you know that, don’t you?” Aramis said. “Half of Paris will no doubt know that the Queen is to visit her childhood friend.” He glanced at Porthos for support.

The big man nodded. “The news will be all over both Courts by now.”

“We will not be relying on secrecy,” Treville said, placing heavy emphasis on the word _we_. “We will be relying on the fact that the Queen will be accompanied by the best soldiers in Paris.” 

Treville leaned back in his chair looking as weary as Athos felt. The debate with the cardinal had been heated and had lasted a full two hours. By the end of it, Athos had been in possession of a stinking headache, desperate for the respite that alcohol would bring, but knowing that with the hundred and one things that needed doing, he had no prospect of that solace in his immediate future.

“The best soldier in Paris can be laid low by one well-aimed musket ball.” Aramis ran a hand through his unruly hair and looked distinctly unhappy.

“That is why you and Porthos will be riding ahead to check on any possible ambush sites,” Athos said from his position leaning against the wall of Treville’s office. “Your sniper’s instincts and his nose for trouble will be our best early warning system. The captain, d’Artagnan and I will ride with the Queen’s coach.”

The three musketeers who had not been privy to the horse-trading between Treville and Richelieu all stared at the captain in ill-disguised surprise.

“I am still capable of sitting astride a horse and wielding both sword and pistol,” Treville said dryly. “Despite my advanced age and obvious infirmity. Twenty other members of the regiment will ride with us. Athos, I will leave the choice of men in your hands. Porthos, use your connections in the Court of Miracles. If there is even the slightest rumour that might have a bearing on this visit I want to hear it. Aramis, d’Artagnan, keep your ears open in the taverns. The Red Guards are remaining in the city, but I want to know if any of them should unaccountably take leave of absence.”

Porthos’ scarred eyebrow lifted in surprise. “You suspect the cardinal of plotting against the Queen?”

“With the exception of those in this garrison, I suspect everyone. The cardinal is an opportunist, and this visit presents an opportunity.” Treville stood up. “We have to be ready to ride out in four days, gentleman.”

* * * * * 

The heat hung over the gardens of the Louvre in a shimmering haze, thick enough to cut with a dagger. The scent of roses was heavy in the air and bees hovered over the flowers, whilst a riot of butterflies danced over the beds of lavender that lined the edges of the paths. 

The Queen’s ladies milled around on the palace steps like a gaggle of particularly brainless geese and Athos could see that Treville was itching to start barking orders at them in a parade ground voice. Françoise d’Hauteville, the most sensible of the women in Athos’ opinion, started to flap her hands at them, shooing them in the direction of the waiting carriages while footmen stood stiffly by the open doors, pages hurried to and fro, and servants loaded baggage.

The debates on the size of the Queen’s entourage had continued well into the night on at least two occasions, but eventually even Treville and Richelieu had finally become united in the face of a common foe, namely the Queen’s First Valet de Chambre, a strutting dandy with the face of a constipated ferret and a liking for ill-matching colours that gave Athos a headache just from looking at him. Labois’ idea of an acceptable royal entourage would indeed have beggared the treasury and taken the best part of a week simply to have filed out through the palace gates, as well as bankrupting any unfortunate noble chosen to host the Queen on her journey.

Athos had heard tales of the progress through the countryside of the Queen and her entourage when she had first arrived in France. Fortunately, neither the captain nor the cardinal had been willing to countenance anything even remotely resembling that kind of excess. This was to be a private visit, not a state occasion, on that all parties – with the exception of the First Valet de Chambre – had been agreed, but Athos had rapidly come to the conclusion that the man simply refused to grasp anything that failed to measure up his own delusions of grandeur.

When the Queen emerged from the palace, Athos could see that she was pale from the heat and clearly tired before the journey had even begun. It was scarcely a month since she had lost her own baby, and he was surprised that she wished to be in proximity to another woman and her children, but the Comtesse de Beaune had been a childhood friend of the young Anne of Austria at the Spanish court, and might be able to provide the solace that the Queen had clearly failed to find in her own court.

Athos shifted uncomfortably in the saddle with remembered pain from the whipping he’d taken as a result of the cardinal’s manipulation. A long night spent diverting as much alcohol as he could into his own throat rather than the King’s had seen him return to the garrison barely able to set one foot in front of the other. Richelieu had carefully ensured that news of the Queen’s distress did not reach Treville before he’d leaped to a wholly erroneous but entirely reasonable conclusion and acted on it. The cardinal clearly had little time for a queen who was unable to bring a son and heir into the world but so far, the King’s loyalty to his wife had remained firm, and Athos had seen the genuine distress in the man’s eyes before the onslaught of wine had dulled his senses.

The Queen would do better away from the stifling midsummer heat and the petty rivalry of the court. Her attendants had been picked for their loyalty and good sense. The King had been adamant that what his Queen wanted, she was to have, and Treville had shown considerable adroitness in manoeuvring Richelieu into a corner over people and numbers. It had proved to be a small, but significant victory in that none of the cardinal’s favourites, or any of his personal guard, had had been successful in inveigling themselves into the Queen’s retinue.

After what seemed like an eternity of fussing and flapping that came dangerously close to tripping Treville’s temper from a quiet simmer into a rolling boil, Athos was finally able to touch his heels to his horse’s sides and start to move, riding just to the rear of the ornate white and gold coach that contained, on Treville’s express orders, no one other than the Queen, Françoise d’Hauteville and a page boy called Mathieu Fournier who had the face of an angel and, when provoked, a command of vulgarity that appeared to have come straight out of the worst stews of the city. The boy had a cousin in the musketeers that he idolised, one of the men remaining in the garrison tasked with the King’s safety on their absence. Athos knew that Mathieu’s fragile looks belied a sharp brain and steady nerve, whereas the other three pages that would be accompanying the Queen were younger and a good deal more delicate.

The remaining attendants had been banished to other coaches in the cavalcade. Athos was taking no chances with the Queen’s safety on this journey. He wanted no one near her as they travelled other than those who could be trusted to put her safety above their own and to follow orders to the letter. The two coachmen, Bernard and Hubert, had been chosen for their long-service and ability to handed strong, even-tempered horses that would not panic under fire. Both men were armed with pistols and daggers, and had been put through their paces by Aramis and Porthos before being pronounced sound.

The rest of the convoy knew what to expect if they came under attack. The Queen was of paramount importance and, as her personal guard, the musketeers would put her safety above all other considerations. Everyone else would have to stay out of the way and keep their heads down.

Once they passed outside the grounds of the Louvre, Athos felt the familiar knot of pre-mission tension in his guts start to dissolve. This was not the first time he had been charged with the Queen’s safety, and he fervently hoped it would not be the last. Her annual visit to the healing waters by which she set so much store was likely to be their next assignment, should this visit to the Comtesse de Beaune restore the Queen’s spirits sufficiently for her to contemplate more travel.

The journey had been planned in three stages and was intended to bring them to the Comtesse’s château by the evening of the third day on the road. The first night would be spent at the royal château of Fontainebleau, the birthplace of King Louis; the second at the Château de Bondaroy near Pithiviers. Whether Jacques de Guéribaldès would be horrified or delighted by the need to provide hospitality to the Queen and her entourage remained to be seen, but no doubt he would have the good sense to feign delight, at the very least. 

Even allowing for the worsening state of the roads south of Fontainebleau, Athos remained hopeful that they would reach their destination on schedule. He had taken the precaution of insisting on a team of horses pulling an empty carriage in case the Queen’s coach suffered damage and, in addition, they had several fresh horses with the baggage train, plus the capability of carrying out their own repairs on the road.

There would no doubt be unanticipated problems on the journey, but for now, with a light breeze doing something to dispel the previously stifling heat, all Athos had to do was keep his wits about him and rely on his comrades to play their assigned parts.

And he knew he could trust them with the Queen’s life as much as he trusted them with his own.


	2. Chapter 2

By mid-afternoon on their third day of travel, the convey was hot, beset by insects, and becoming somewhat fractious. Athos’ throat was as dry as dust, sweat was running down his back in rivulets and even his normally stoic mount was lashing its tail furiously at the ever-present mosquitoes.

The Queen had borne the heat and the jolting of the carriage with reasonable fortitude, as had Françoise d’Hauteville, but Athos had reached the stage of wanting to drown the rest of her women in a particularly fetid pond, much like the one in the last village they’d passed through. He was thoroughly sick of having to assign his men to stand guard when one of the women was beset by a burning desire to relive herself in the woods. He’d even started to revise his opinion of the good sense of most of them, despite having had a hand in their choosing. Being the object of the ill-disguised infatuation of some of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting had become wearing for all of them, even through Athos had never thought he’d live to see the day when Aramis would actively avoid the company of attractive women, but after three long days on the road, on constant alert for trouble, a dalliance was clearly the last thing on his friend’s mind.

The sun was already past its height, and Athos hoped they would be at the gates of the Château de la Lune before the shadows of evening had started to draw in, but until they were safe inside its confines, none of them could afford to relax their guard.

The sound of a horse’s hooves approaching them along the track told him that Aramis had returned from scouting the next section of the route. His friend approached at a gentle trot, wheeled his horse in a tight circle, and fell into step beside the Queen’s carriage. 

“I don’t like the look of the road ahead,” the musketeer said, with as little inflection in his voice as if he’d been remarking on the weather. “It runs through a narrow defile overlooked by a rocky precipice to the north. It’s where I’d choose for an ambush.”

“How far away?” Athos asked.

“Half a league.”

“What does Porthos think?”

“In general, he hates the countryside. In particular, he says he’s got a bad feeling but can’t put his finger on the reason. He’s waiting for us by a small stream. We can stop there to water the horses.”

“I have long since learned to trust Porthos’ instincts,” Treville said, keeping his voice too low to carry to the occupants of the Queen’s coach. “And I would set a sniper to catch a sniper. Aramis, if you think that is a place to spring a trap, then we will act on your observations. I would prefer not to take any chances where Her Majesty is concerned. Athos, how do you want to play this?”

Before answering, Athos took a moment to replay the last league of the journey in his mind. Nothing had sparked his concern. There had been birdsong, and even the sight of a hind and her young amidst the trees. No unusual silence, nothing to indicate they were under surveillance of any kind. An idea was forming in his mind, and providing there were no hostile eyes on them now, he was confident they could bring the Queen safely through the final stage of the journey. Speaking in the same undertone as the captain, he outlined his plan.

Treville heard him out and then nodded his approval. “I’ll speak to the Queen.”

* * * * * 

Athos watched as Treville rode to the head of the column, his pistol drawn as he raised his voice to a parade ground shout, “Stay alert! We ride through here as fast as we can. Stop when I order you to and not before!”

“I wouldn’t want to argue with him when he sounds like that,” muttered Porthos.

“Well, maybe not to his face,” conceded Aramis.

“So why are we always being had up on charges of duelling?” D’Artagnan asked. Their newest recruit touched his heels to his horse’s side and it leaped forward, keeping pace with the Queen’s carriage.

“We’re not good at following orders when we are bored,” Athos told him, bringing his horse up to the window of the carriage. “Keep your head down, Your Majesty. This won’t take long, I can assure you…”

The sound of musket fire echoed off the pinnacle rocks that loomed over the deep, wooded defile. Splinters flew off the gilded coach and Athos felt a sharp pain in his right cheek. A second shot creased the flank of one of the coach-horses, but the coachman held the beast in check as the carriage careered along the rough track.

Unable to deploy long-range weapons from horseback, the musketeers concentrated on putting themselves between the attackers and the Queen, intent on acting as a shield, whilst holding off anyone foolish enough to launch a closer assault.

“The rocks!” shouted Treville, his voice cutting through the screams of the Queen’s ladies, the snorts of the horses, and the rattling of the carriage. “Four of you, get up there! The rest with me!”

Porthos and three of the Queen’s escort threw themselves off their horses and started to scramble up the slope.

Another volley of musket shots split the air, more splinters flew from the coach and a high pitched scream of terror, mingled with pain, came from the interior. The coachmen whipped the horses onwards, hoping to carry their precious burden out of the field of fire.

Athos stared around seeking out any threats closer than the snipers amidst the rocks, but it seemed their attackers had no intention of closing with them. A third salvo of shots hit the coach, this time knocking holes in the wood. The screaming from inside abruptly stopped and the silence was far more chilling than even the screaming had been.

Wondering how many weapons the snipers had at their disposal, Athos could do nothing more than keep pace with the coach as it bounced over the rutted track. Treville’s shouts were loud in the sudden silence and then Athos heard the sound of pistol fire. The musketeers had closed in on their quarry.

More shots and shouts added to the confusion, but the Queen’s coach and its escort held to Treville’s orders. This was not the time to stop and check for casualties. They needed to reach a place of safety before taking stock. Behind them the two carriages containing the Queen’s ladies and their attendants struggled to keep pace with the lead carriage, but Athos had no thought for them or their occupants. They were not his primary concern. At the rear of the convoy, the two baggage wagons were starting to fall behind, but no one paid them any heed.

Athos’ biggest concern was that the Queen’s coach would shed a wheel on the rough track. They’d lost anything resembling decent roads not long after leaving Fontainebleau and the current one was little more than a cart-track, baked hard by the summer sun, with the coach wheels running in deep ruts. It was only by the skill of the coachmen that the snorting carriage horses were being held to their course. Any deviation would result in a snapped axel.

After what seemed an age of reckless, headlong flight, Treville’s command brought the convoy to a halt. There had been no shots from above them in some while, and no attempt to bring the attack to close quarters. The musketeers closed around the Queen’s coach, weapons drawn, their mounts circling around as the coachmen steadied their snorting, stamping horses.

Athos jumped from the saddle and opened the door of the coach. “Your Majesty, are you injured?”

Matty Fournier, huddled on the floor behind a pile of trunks containing clothes and assorted accoutrements, grinned up at him. “What did you think of the screams?”

“Blood-curdling,” Athos said, grinning back at the boy. 

Matty had played the part of a terrified woman to perfection and Athos was glad to see that apart from a shallow cut across his forehead, probably from banging against one of the boxes that had been shielding him from the musket balls, he’d taken no harm. Athos had been by no means certain of that, having heard Matty’s last, dramatic shriek abruptly choked off.

“Stay out of sight,” Athos instructed him. “I won’t be happy until we’re clear of these damned woods.” He put a hand up to his face and plucked out the splinter of wood that had embedded itself in his cheek. Another few inches higher and it would have taken out his eye.

While they waited for Porthos and the men he’d taken with him to return, Athos joined Treville in checking on the rest of their company. It seemed that the gunfire had been concentrated on the Queen’s coach, as they’d hoped and luckily, all had escaped serious injury. 

The final baggage wagon trotting sedately into view as Athos reached the end of the line. The coachman’s hat was pulled low over his eyes, but as Athos approached, the hat was tipped back to reveal d’Artagnan’s wide smile.

“It worked!”

“Did you expect anything less?” Athos drawled. He threw back a corner of the cloth covering the various trunks and boxes piled high on the wagon. “Your Majesty, I would prefer it if you remained here until we are out of these woods.”

The Queen smiled up at him from amidst a bed of cloaks and cushions. She’d played her part bravely, accepting that for the ruse to work, the baggage wagon needed to look like it was the least of anyone’s concern.

Athos tipped his hat to her, covered the wagon over again, and left d’Artagnan in charge of their precious cargo.

* * * * *

The cavalcade that crested the final rise before the Château de la Lune was hot, dusty, beset by flies, and relieved to see the end of their journey in sight.

The Queen, riding in her own carriage again, had been effusive in her thanks to both her escort and her pageboy. Matty Fournier, very much the hero of the escapade, had blushed to the tips of his wide-set ears.

To Treville’s annoyance, Porthos had been unable to take any of the assassins alive. Three had been killed in the musketeer’s assault on their rocky stronghold, two others had got away. There had been nothing on the dead men to identify them, but Aramis was of the opinion that the muskets they’d seized had been of Spanish origin. The Queen had looked shocked to hear his words, but as Treville had pointed out, there was no reason to suspect a Spanish plot against her, and the weapons could just as easily have been planted to create suspicion.

Whatever the truth of the matter, Athos would simply be glad once they’d brought the Queen safely to her destination. 

Below them, the Loire, wide and slow, shone in the sunlight and beyond it, on an arm of the opposite hillside, flung out towards the river, the Château de la Lune, summer home of the Comtesse de Beaune, cast an imposing shadow, even in the lingering heat of late afternoon.

From what Athos knew of the château’s history, it had originally been built some six hundred years ago by the Counts of Anjou and later enlarged by the Plantagenet King of England, Richard, famed throughout France for his fortifications. The position it occupied was reminiscent of the fortress at Château Gaillard, overlooking the Seine near Rouen, although the cliffs there were far higher. His soldier’s practised eyes made a rapid assessment of the château’s defensive capabilities and he was impressed by what he could see. Round towers with good fields of fire loomed over a perfect killing ground on the river valley below, and the approach from below led up a narrow roadway that would be the death of many an attacker. This was a castle that an enemy could throw a large force at to little good effect.

In comparison with the many flamboyant châteaux of the Loire Valley, the Château de la Lune was stark, dark and very, very defensible. 

Athos shared a slight smile with Treville. Once within its walls, he might even have the opportunity to quench his aching thirst with something other than wine watered down to beggars’ piss.

* * * * *

The horses and carriages clattered into the courtyard, hooves ringing on the cobbles. A once-slender woman, now weighed down in the late stages of pregnancy, walked slowly down the steps from one of the towers, a wide smile on her face. She was no older than the Queen, with a mass of auburn ringlets artlessly piled around a naturally beautiful face free of any paint or powder.

The Queen’s own servants rushed to throw open the doors of her carriage, placing steps for her use. Anne stepped down onto the cobbles, her arms thrown wide at the site of her old friend. Hélène de Beaune attempted to sink into an off-balance curtsey, but the Queen’s hands steadied her and drew her instead into a tender embrace.

“You look radiant!” the Queen exclaimed, one slender hand stoking her friend’s cheek.

Hélène de Beaune stared in horror at the lumps gouged out of the gilded exterior of the coach. While the two women talked excitedly, Athos swung down from his horse and surrendered the reins to a nervous-looking stable lad. “Treat him well,” he ordered, adding, “but don’t approach him from behind.” 

The warning did nothing to dispel the lad’s nervousness, but it was better than learning the hard way that surprising Roger was unwise in the extreme. The tall, heavy-set horse tossed his head and snorted, but allowed the boy to lead him away. Ignoring the noise and bustle in the yard, Athos and Treville flanked the Queen, leaving Aramis to check any possible vantage points that might present a threat, while Porthos and d’Artagnan concentrated on any dangers closer to the Queen.

Amongst the bustling press of servants, one stood apart: a hatched-faced woman with steel grey hair caught up under a white lace bonnet. She glared with ill-concealed and indiscriminate irritation at those around her. Catching her black gown up in her hands, she swept to the Comtesse’s side and said something in sharp undertone. Hélène de Beaune took on the aspect of a child called sharply to order by an adult, her shoulders drooping and her smile eclipsed as if a cloud had just covered the sun. The Queen’s retinue was swiftly ushered inside, away from the still-strong afternoon sun into the cool, dark of the interior.

Before following then, Athos’ eyes were drawn to a window in the tower overlooking the courtyard. Looking down on them, with a face like a thundercloud, was a dark-haired young man, staring down with no liking in his expression. His gaze fell on Athos then he moved swiftly back into the shadows.

Athos glanced around at his companions and received a nod from Aramis, signalling that he had not been the only one to note that their arrival was certainly not the cause of unalloyed celebration throughout the castle.

The suite of rooms set aside for the Queen was richly appointed, with pale green patterned paper on the walls, a large, gold-canopied bed and several chairs, embroidered in gold and green, set around a large fire place, heaped now with pine cones surrounding a bowl of dried lavender that gave off a fresh delicate scent. 

Queen Anne exclaimed in delight at the view from the window that took in a wide sweep of the Loire and the fertile fields of the valley, its crops bleached by the sun. She settled down on the padded window seat with her old friend and gratefully accepted a glass of wine.

“My companions and I will require rooms close to the Queen’s,” Athos informed the black-gowned woman who had preceded them all into the chamber.

She shot him a sour look that put him in mid of a particularly irritable nurse who had forced him to eat all manner of unpalatable things in childhood. “There are rooms enough in this tower for whoever needs them. I will await your instruction.”

By the time Athos had finally reached an agreement with Françoise d’Hauteville about the accommodation, he was desperate for some respite from the demands of diplomacy. Under the guise of needing to speak to the captain, he took refuge in his own bedchamber. The room he was to share with Treville was adjacent to the one that would be occupied by his three companions in arms. Both rooms were close enough to the Queen’s suite to satisfy Athos’ need for himself and the others to be within earshot of the woman he was sworn to protect. The view over the river was as impressive as the one from the Queen’s own apartments, but Athos was more interested in the bottle of wine he’d stowed in his pack.

“Pour one for me,” Treville remarked from the doorway. “I feel like I’ve been chewing dust the entire day.” The captain pulled off his breastplate and dropped it on the floor with a look of disgust. “I hate that fucking thing.”

“Then why wear it?”

“Trying to set a good example to the rest of you.” Treville drained his glass even faster than Athos and held it out for a refill.

“You’re wasting your time. We hate them even more than you do. But I’ll admit there was a moment in that damned forest when I might have been glad of one. Some of those shots came closer than I was comfortable with.” Athos leaned against the wall by the window and drank his second glass rather more slowly. “Who was the lad glaring down at us in the courtyard when we arrived? If looks could kill, we’d all be leaving here in a cart.”

“Philippe de Beaune, son of the Comte by his first wife. His mother died in childbirth when he was ten.”

“Is it the current Comtesse he hates, or does he just have an aversion to visitors?”

“I have no idea, but I’m expecting Matty Fournier to garner all the gossip and tell us anything we need to know by tomorrow morning.”

Athos set his glass down on the window seat and helped Treville out of his thick leather jacket. “Good. Despite the Comtesse’s warm welcome, there’s a stifling atmosphere about this place that I don’t like. I’ll feel more comfortable when we have a better idea where the land lies.”

Treville nodded, his expression thoughtful, leaving Athos wondering if the Château de la Lune was quite the sanctuary he’d first thought.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’ve never stayed in a real haunted castle before!” Matty Fournier declared on their first morning, evident relish in his voice. “My nurse always used to claim ours was haunted, but the only noises I ever heard in the night were her falling over the chairs when she was drunk.”

“A familiar sound, and not always indicative of ghosts,” Aramis said, shooting Athos an amused look.

“Who says the castle is haunted?” Athos asked, noticing the slight movement of his friend’s hand to the ever-present rosary and cross around his neck.

“Philippe,” Matty said with relish. “He says the Comtesse hates it here, but it’s the only place that’s cool enough for her in this weather. Have you seen how big she is? Looks like she’s setting a clutch!”

Aramis winced and Porthos grinned. 

The boy’s urbane manner when in the presence of the Queen and her ladies belied the vulgarity that he absorbed like a sponge from the soldiers he loved to spend time with. Even the younger sons of the nobility who made up much of the ranks of the King’s Musketeers were known to cuss up a storm at the slightest provocation.

“And what’s the Vicomte’s view of the impending arrival of another member of the household?” Aramis enquired.

“He doesn’t like her, and he doesn’t like the idea of a kid around the place. I reckon he thinks his father’s besotted enough with her.”

The Comte de Beaune was at least twice his young wife’s age, and was currently attending to matters at his large estate three days ride to the east. Athos strongly suspected that like most men, besotted or not, he found it best to put a safe distance between himself and women’s matters. 

“Get close to Philippe if you can,” Athos instructed. “There’s an atmosphere about this place that would raise the hackles on a dog. I’ll arrange it so that you get more time to yourself than the other boys.”

“Haunted, eh?” Porthos said when the boy had gone.

“Stories to frighten children,” Treville snorted, looking unimpressed.

“One of us must remain with the Queen at all times.” Athos said. “There’s been one attempt on her life already and we don’t know who can be trusted here.”

“Time spent in the company of beautiful ladies is never time wasted,” Aramis declared, smiling.

“Not what you said when they kept wanting a piss,” Porthos commented.

Aramis looked pained. “Not one of my vices, my friend. Shall I take the first watch of the day?”

“Be my guest,” Athos told him. “I suggest the rest of us familiarise ourselves with the layout of this place.”

From what Athos had seen of the castle on the evening of their arrival, it was a rabbit warren of interconnecting rooms and passages, altered and extended in a haphazard fashion over the centuries of its occupation. He left Treville composing dispatches to the King and the Cardinal, and set about learning his way about around what was more like a fortress than home, but he had to admit that the thick walls did a good job of keeping the heat of the day at bay.

For all that the Château de la Lune was no more than the Comte de Beaune’s summer residence, the place was well stocked with servants and retainers, but Athos saw no one he regarded as a fighting man, although some of the stable lads looked like they’d know how to handle themselves in a scrap. Any retinue of that nature was away with the Comte, who clearly had little fear for his wife’s safety in the midst of his estate. As far as he knew, Hubert de Beaune was loyal to the King, and his family had been loyal to the reigning monarch for several hundred years. The family seemed to always have had a knack of picking the winning side in any political machinations, a rare talent that had no doubt contributed to their considerable fortune. 

His wandering footsteps led eventually down to the kitchens. They were large, hot and noisy, ruled over by a termagant of a head cook who came no higher than his elbow and was almost as round as she was high. The woman made her views known on the influx of strangers, while seemingly revelling in the amount of preparation and cooking that was needed. Athos succeeded in charming a sizeable hunk of salt pork out of her, together with some old, shrivelled but exceedingly sweet, apples for the horses and a mug of rich blood-red wine for himself. His tolerance of the castle had started to considerably improve.

The stable boys had done a good job of settling the musketeers’ mounts and the various coach horses. Two of the animals had received minor injuries in the attack, but seemed quiet and contented now. He ran his hands over Roger’s flanks and legs. The big horse snickered at him and nudged Athos with his nose, seeking out the treat that he knew he’d find. 

Once the apples had been distributed, Athos made his way to the castle yard where two of the younger musketeers were already engaged in a bout of sparring. Watching them, a sulky expression on his handsome face, was Philippe de Beaune. Whether Matty Fournier would succeed in getting close to the older boy would remain to be seen, but Matty was an engaging youngster when he set his mind to it, and he seemed to be enjoying the role he’d been asked to play. As Athos lounged against the wall outside the stables, watching the coachmen and the Queen’s own grooms doing their best to repair some of the damage the attackers had done to the large gilded carriage, he saw Matty approach Philippe, and relatively quickly, a more animated expression replaced the seemingly habitual glower.

The young page was giving a lively account of the attack, including the part he’d played. Together they examined the damage as Matty demonstrated quite how close some of the musket balls had come to him. Athos had felt some pangs of guilt at putting the lad in danger, but the Queen’s safety had been of paramount importance, and Matty was sworn to her service. 

Athos lifted his hat in salute to the Vicomte as he passed by the coach and received a slight nod in return. The young man’s dark eyes took in the array of weapons Athos carried, clearly impressed despite the somewhat aloof air he was clearly trying to cultivate. 

On impulse, Athos checked his stride and swept his hat off into a bow. “Athos of the King’s Musketeers. My thanks for your hospitality, Vicomte. Would you do me the honour of acquainting me with the castle’s defences? I presume none know them better than you.”

He half-expected Philippe de Beaune to make an excuse and decline but, to his surprise, the young man nodded. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we start at the main gate?”

The Vicomte’s tour of the Château de la Lune was both comprehensive and informative. His knowledge of the military history of his father’s lands shone through the somewhat affected air of slightly world-weary boredom and Athos began to see another side of their hostess’ stepson. Matty Fournier trotted along behind like an eager puppy, seemingly hanging on the young man’s every word, and falling easily into the part Athos had asked him to play.

By the time the tour ended, Athos had the layout of the castle and its warren of corridors firmly fixed in his mind. As they walked towards the large room where the Queen and her ladies were closeted together, Athos heard the sudden loud twang of a musical instrument, its strings stretched almost to breaking point, almost immediately followed by a piercing scream.

Athos swept his pistol out of his belt and broke into a run, Philippe de Beaune and Matty Fournier hard on his heels.

* * * * *

The door flew open, propelled by Athos’ shoulder. It struck one of the Queen’s ladies and the blow precipitated another ear-splitting scream.

The Queen was sitting by a hearth piled high with pine cones, her hands resting in her lap. If she was surprised by the dramatic entry, she gave no hint, maintaining her composure in the face of screaming women and musketeer with a pistol in one hand and a dagger in the other. Athos admired her iron-nerve even as his eyes swept the room looking for the cause of the first scream.

At the far side of the room, Aramis had sprung to his feet, no weapon in his hands, but his fingers had curled around the handle of the pistol at his side.

“Enough, Marguerite!” The Queen’s voice held the unmistakeable whip-crack of authority. She turned to Athos, saying quickly, “No harm has been done. Hélène was telling tales of the castle’s dark past and…”

“But Your Majesty, no one laid hands on the instruments!” Marguerite de Chouy was wide-eyed and trembling, and Athos wondered what on earth had possessed him to think she had any good sense at all.

“Are you suggesting a phantom walked amongst us unseen and plucked the strings?” Clearly unimpressed by her lady-in-waiting’s interruption, Queen Anne’s question held a distinct challenge and it would have taken a braver woman that Madame de Chouy to have spoken again. The Queen’s voice softened and a slight smile played on her lips as she turned to her friend. “But it was a tale well told, Hélène. I will confess to having been somewhat alarmed myself.”

After being sure that the Queen was unharmed, Athos took in the startled faces of both their hostess and the Queen’s ladies. The tales, whatever they had been, had clearly been enough to induce fright. Standing by a corner of the room away from the women, Aramis let his hand fall away from the butt of his pistol, but Athos saw the quick, surreptitious movement of his friend’s hand as he sketched the sign of the cross in the air.

Athos removed his hat and executed a well-practised bow to the Queen.

A sudden TWANG made him jerk his head up to stare in the direction of an L-shaped alcove at the end of the room. From what he could see, the walls were adorned with numerous musical instruments. Several of the women, including Hélène de Beaune, and at least one of the younger page boys, let out gasps of fright, while Marguerite de Chouy stifled a scream with her hand. Aramis whirled around, staring closely at lutes and citterns hanging on the wall behind him. He glanced back at Athos and gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

“It always starts like this,” Philippe de Beaune muttered under his breath, so quietly that Athos barely caught the words.

Athos shot him a questioning look and received back an utterly bland stare, as if the youth had not spoken at all. Quelling an almost irresistible urge – one he suspected he shared with the Queen – to dispense a few hard slaps, Athos turned to the woman whose arm the door had hit when he’d made his dramatic entrance, and bowed again.

“Madame de la Fontaine, my apologies. There is no harm done, I trust?”

The woman rubbed her elbow and gave him a somewhat tremulous smile in return. “No harm done, Monsieur Athos,” she agreed. It would bruise, and they both knew it, but the proprieties had been observed.

A rustle of fabric behind him in the corridor caught Athos’ attention and he turned to find the black-robed housekeeper behind him, wearing a face that would curdle milk. 

She curtsied to the Queen then addressed her mistress. “A meal is ready for Her Majesty and your guests, Comtesse.”

“Thank you, Bouchet.” Hélène de Beaune rose slowly to her feet, using the arms of the chair to assist in her rising. Matty Fournier has been right, the woman did look like she was setting a clutch. Too many more frights and the men would need to make themselves scare while nature took its course. The Comtesse smiled warmly at the Queen and the other women. “Come, let us move to the hall. I promise there are no musical instruments there to cause a fright.”

Before Athos had an opportunity to ask Philippe what he had meant by his remark, the young man held his arm out to his stepmother with a solicitous air that wholly failed to reach his eyes. Aramis raised a quizzical eyebrow and Athos nodded in the direction of the women, indicating that he should follow them.

Alone in the room, Athos walked over to the alcove and stared at the instruments on the wall. Some he recognised from his childhood at la Fère, others he did not, but he suspected several were of Italian make. No doubt Aramis would be able to enlighten him. Athos looked closely at each one, plucking the strings experimentally, but none produced the loud, clanging twang that he had just heard.

In one corner, gathering dust, was an old-fashioned military field drum of a similar type to the one Serge used to announce meals in the garrison. Athos rapped his knuckles on the taut skin. It produced a hollow donging noise that sounded like the tensioning screws had not received any attention in a long while. He remembered spending several interesting and happy hours with one of his tutors at la Fère studying how such drums were made. He much preferred an instrument that could be hit rather than having to be coaxed. When given a stringed instrument, he was more than capable of emulating the screech of a mating cat, but always failed to produce anything that could ever be classed as music.

With the exception of a darkly-frowning portrait over the fireplace, the L-shaped room was welcoming as well as lighter and more airy than many Athos had seen in the castle, with tall windows overlooking the valley. The portrait was of the first Comte de Beaune, the current incumbent’s great-grandfather, so Philippe had informed him when they had encountered the first of the man’s many likenesses hung around the place. The long-dead Comte looked not unlike a man sucking a mouthful of sloes after his arse had just been stung by a wasp. Dark, busy eyebrows overhung a piercing gaze that seemed to follow Athos around the room, as though the Comte heartily disapproved of anyone daring to set foot in his music room. 

Athos inclined his head to the portrait and left the room; as he closed the door behind him a DONG, even louder than the earlier TWANG, made him jump like a nervous horse. Cursing under his breath, Athos thrust the door open again and strode back in, wondering if one of the young pages had remained behind with mischief in mind.

“Come out now and I’ll not whip your hide,” he offered loudly.

Another even louder DONG was all that greeted his words.

Crossing the room in long strides, he stared around expecting to see a young boy grinning up at him, but the L-shaped alcove was as empty as it had been a few moments previously. Feeling more than a little foolish, Athos stretched out a hand to touch the tips of his fingers to the calfskin drum-head to see if it was still thrumming.

It was not.

His mouth set in a hard line, Athos conducted a thorough search of the room, even going as far as to stick his head up into the large fireplace, but he found no concealed hiding place, just several large spiders.

“Still lookin’ for assassins?” 

Porthos’ question caught him unawares. The big musketeer could walk like a cat when he wanted to, even on polished wooden floors. Athos straightened up too quickly, banging his head hard on the stone lintel. 

“I’m going to tie bells to your boots,” Athos grumbled, rubbing the top of his head.

Porthos stared around the room, his brows drawn together in a frown. “Don’t tell me the Comtesse’s stories have got you spooked too?”

“Do I look spooked?” 

“Nah, but you jumped like a virgin who’d just had her tits grabbed.”

DONG!

Athos whirled around as the sound echoed around the room like a pistol shot. He had the pleasure of seeing Porthos’ hand seek out the hilt of his dagger, but whether his friend was responding to the noise or to Athos’ own reaction wasn’t clear. 

“What the fuck was that?”

“The snare drum relaxing in the heat?” Athos hazarded, knowing the explanation was unconvincing, and not even knowing if such a thing was possible. His long-ago memories were hazy in that respect.

Porthos reached up and rubbed the scar bisecting one eyebrow, something he often did when he was uneasy, as if the old injury sometimes came back to haunt him with phantom pain. “The Queen’s ladies aren’t the only ones who’ve been listening to tales to frighten children. Come on, there’s food to be had in the kitchen and I’m starving.”

Athos closed the door firmly behind them, and schooled his features back into their usual mask, refusing to react in any way to a muffled DONG as they walked away. In response to Porthos’ raised eyebrow he just shrugged and kept walking.

* * * * *

“This is how it always begins…” The hatchet-faced housekeeper intoned in a low voice as Athos and Porthos walked into the enormous kitchen where several of the other musketeers were already seated at a long wooden table that ran almost the length of the room. She looked up at the sound of their boots on the flagstones and promptly fell silent.

“Don’t let us interrupt,” Athos said, taking the chair d’Artagnan held out to him. “Do I take it that musical instruments playing by themselves is not considered a good sign?”

The woman shot him a cold look. “The castle doesn’t take well to visitors.”

“The castle?” Athos injected a note of polite enquiry into his tone, and forbore to mention that the castle wasn’t the only thing that appeared not to like visitors.

“I’ll say no more.” Mme Bouchet slammed an enormous loaf of freshly-baked bread onto the table and stalked off.

“She was just getting started,” d’Artaganan said under his breath, beating Porthos to the bread and hacking off a large slice to dunk in a bowl of stew in front of him. “I don’t think she likes you, my friend.”

“Story of his life,” Porthos said, landing Athos a hefty slap on the shoulder. “Can’t all have my luck with women.”

Athos rolled his eyes, but the mood in the kitchen had been broken and after that, Madame Bouchet was at pains to stay away from them. They would have to rely on Matty Fournier obtaining information from Philippe or the servants. That the same words had been used by the two people who seemed to hold no love for the pregnant Comtesse or her visitors was too marked to be simply a coincidence. 

* * * * *

“So, we have a haunted castle where musical instruments make noises of their own accord and members of the house make cryptic comments clearly intending to be overheard.” Treville sounded deeply unimpressed and Athos didn’t blame him. The captain topped up the wine in their glasses and leaned back in his chair, head resting on one hand. “You look more troubled than either occurrence would merit, Athos. Is there something I’m missing here?”

They were alone in their shared room after an uneventful afternoon and evening wholly lacking in either twangs or dongs. The captain had been occupied with reports and letters most of the day, finally dispatching one of their company back to Paris with missives for both the King and the Cardinal. Treville had subsequently toured the castle together with Athos, pronouncing himself satisfied with its defensive capabilities and less than impressed with the friendliness of its inhabitants, both sentiments entirely echoing Athos’ own opinions.

“The noises were… strange,” Athos admitted. “I was unable to replicate either of them on any of the instruments in the room, and it was hard to distinguish the point of origin of any of the sounds. Besides that, Aramis seemed oddly discomfited when I arrived.”

“Well, you had just shoulder-charged the door.”

“He’s seen me do that often enough. It doesn’t normally cause him concern. It might have been different if I’d blown the lock off.”

“Aramis is a man of religion. It’s a small step from that to belief in other phantoms.” 

Religion held no appeal for the captain, as Athos well knew, although his commander was careful to observe all necessary public proprieties, as was he, but Treville’s belief in a merciful god had long since deserted him, interred with the broken bodies of all too many of his men. Athos’ own beliefs had died the day he had hanged the only woman he’d ever loved from a tree.

“Maybe by tomorrow the inestimable Mathieu will have extracted some information for us,” Athos commented.

“The boy will make a fine spymaster when he’s old enough,” Treville said, a slight smile on his face. They’d all been impressed with Matty’s performance in the Queen’s carriage, and Athos knew a fulsome report had been given of the boy’s bravery under fire.

Athos drained his wine cup and reached for the bottle, but a sudden commotion outside in the corridor propelled him to his feet with a muttered curse. 

“It’s all changed!” 

He recognised the voice of one of the Queen’s maids. The girl sounded on the verge of hysteria, and once again Athos contemplated the prospect of dispensing a hard slap, but the sudden and instantly recognisable sound of hand on cheek told him that someone had got there before him.

“Jehanne, be quiet! You’ll awaken Her Majesty!” The instruction was given in a forceful undertone by Françoise d’Hauteville. Athos arrived in the corridor to see her hand drawn back ready to back up her order if the wild-eyed maid continued her wailing.

“What’s amiss?” Treville demanded as Athos pushed past the gaggle of women to ascertain what had caused the girl’s fright. 

Standing nearby, his hand on the hilt of his sword, was d’Artagnan, on duty outside the Queen’s room. He shot Athos the helpless glance of a man beset by a screaming woman and simply shrugged his ignorance of what had caused the commotion.

Nothing seemed out of order in the small, wood-panelled ante-room. It contained a narrow bed, a small table, a chest and a chair. The maid, a plump, red-cheeked girl of no more than fourteen, was the one who would attend the Queen were she to awaken and require anything in the night. From the noise she’d been making, Athos had at the very least expected to find someone on the floor with their throat slit.

“It’s not the same!” The girl still sounded on the verge of hysteria.

Françoise d’Hauteville took her by the shoulders, shook her hard, and pulled her back to the door. “Raise your voice again and I’ll see you turned out of here to make your own way back to Paris! Now tell us clearly what is wrong!”

The threat was enough to counteract whatever sort of fright the maid had received. As a small crowd, now including both Porthos and Aramis, gathered, Jehanne pointed into the room and declared, “Everything has moved. When I left the room to assist the Queen in her toilette, the bed was there.” She pointed to the wall opposite the door. “And the chest was there, with the chair next to it. Now it’s all turned around!”

Athos cast a quizzical glance at d’Artagnan. 

“No one has entered the room. I’ve been here since the Queen retired.”

The sound of a hand-bell being rung in the Queen’s room indicated that Françoise d’Hauteville’s best efforts to quell the disturbance had been unsuccessful. With a furious glare at the unfortunate maid, the older woman entered the Queen’s bedchamber, closing the door swiftly behind her.

“What has happened?” The latest voice to enter the mêlée belonged to Boucher, still dressed in her starched black gown, despite the lateness of the hour.

“The Queen’s maid says the furniture in her sleeping room had been altered while she was with Her Majesty,” Athos stated without preamble, watching the housekeeper closely.

The woman, who normally looked quite capable of giving a phantom a fright rather than the other way round, looked shocked and took a step backwards, away from the open door, as if she’d been the one on the receiving end of a hard slap.

“The castle is restive,” she declared. “This has happened before, but not for many a year.”

“Furniture moves around by itself?” Treville poured a wealth of scorn into his words even as Aramis made the sign of the cross.

Boucher stared at the captain through narrowed eyes. “Do not mock that which you do not understand.”

“This is not the time or the place for this discussion,” Treville snapped. “The Queen’s rest is being disturbed. My musketeers are standing guard; that should be enough for anyone’s peace of mind.”

Athos joined their captain in dispensing the type of glare that had quelled the spirits of even the most robust of recruits, and watched as the onlookers scurried off to their own chambers. Even the seemingly terrified maid appeared to think better of arousing Treville’s ire any further, and stepped back over the threshold of the room. A further hard stare encouraged her to close the door.

A few minutes later, Françoise d’Hauteville stepped back out into the corridor. “I have reassured the Queen that there is no cause for concern. Merely a silly girl who’s been listening to nonsense in the servant’s quarters.”

Treville bowed his head in agreement. “Two of my men will remain here throughout the night.”

“I will stand first watch alongside d’Artagnan,” Athos said, resigning himself to a long night with insufficient alcohol.

He was really starting to dislike the Château de la Lune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, parts of the chapter are shamelessly stolen from an Enid Blyton story! That was where the whole idea stemmed from, but then the story demanded to go its own way....


	4. Chapter 4

The night watch passed without incident. Neither Athos nor d’Artagnan left the corridor outside the Queen’s rooms. When either of them needed to piss, they simply made use of a narrow window that looked down onto the castle wall. Moonlight finally gave way to the grey light of dawn, followed later by a sun that was already promising more warmth to come.

Françoise d’Hauteville was the first to attend the Queen. She smiled at both Athos and d’Artagnan and entered the rooms quietly, remarking that after the exhaustion of travel and the commotion of the previous night she was sure that the Queen would wish to sleep later than usual.

Athos returned her smile. She was an easy woman to like. As soon as Aramis and Porthos arrived to relieve them, he would be glad of some sleep, himself.

A moment later, the woman backed out into the corridor, a look of shock and disbelief on her face. “Have either of you left your post, even for a minute?”

“Neither of us has left this corridor,” d’Artagnan replied swiftly.

“Is anything amiss with the Queen?” Athos demanded, stepping towards the door, his hand reaching automatically for his sword hilt.

“Still sleeping,” she reassured him, a hand pressed to his chest. “But the furniture has moved.”

Athos sidestepped her restraining hand to see for himself.

A large bed surrounded by heavy red and gold drapes dominated the room. In the fireplace on one wall, logs smouldered, burnt down now to embers, but still keeping any night time chill at bay. Four chairs, upholstered in red and gold to match the drapes, were lined up along one wall, and two large chests were pressed up against the opposite wall.

The Queen’s lady in waiting was correct. The position of certain items furniture was indeed different. When Athos had last seen this room during his tour of all the accommodation intended for royal use the previous day, the chairs had been clustered around the fireplace and at least one of the chests had been against the wall that abutted the corridor, but that spot was now bare.

He drew in his breath sharply and shared a look of incredulity with d’Artagnan. At all times during the night, one of them had had their eyes on the doorway to the Queen’s room and that of her night maid the entire time. There was simply no possibility of anyone having paid a clandestine visit to the royal chamber. 

“We must return the furniture to its previous position,” Françoise d’Hauteville instructed in a low voice. “I will not have the queen alarmed when she awakens, not after the upset of last night.”

Athos had his doubts that they could successfully move the items without waking the sleeping woman, but with the aid of Porthos and Aramis, they were able to accomplish their task in relative silence, trusting to the heavy drapes around the bed to muffle the noises they were making. 

In the midst of their efforts, the connecting door to the maid’s room opened. The girl stood there, her mouth gaping open like a stranded fish.

As she drew in her breath to scream, Aramis crossed the room in two long strides and clamped his hand firmly over her mouth, pushing her back into her own room and closing the door behind them. 

“Always was good with women,” Porthos muttered.

To Athos’ amazement, they were able to restore the room to its previous look and retire from the queen’s chamber without waking her. Under the stern gaze of Françoise d’Hauteville, the young maid was allowed to go about her duties, readying the queen’s clothes for the day and removing night soil from the room. Leaving two other musketeers on duty, Athos gestured to his friends to follow him.

Relinquishing their places outside the rooms to two of their comrades, the four musketeers retired to the room Athos shared with Treville to share news of what had happened in the night.

The captain heard them out, a look of increasing incredulity on this face. “Ghosts that move furniture? Find me a more mundane explanation for this mischief,” he ordered.

“The housekeeper and young master Philippe,” Athos said.

“But how?” Aramis said, still fingering the cross around his neck and looking troubled.

“At the moment, I have absolutely no idea,” Athos admitted. “But when the Queen is out of her bedroom, I have every intention of finding out.”

By mid-morning, with the Queen was safely ensconced in the library with her ladies under the watchful eyes of Porthos and d’Artagnan, Athos and Aramis were left to commence a search of the bedroom. Rugs were pulled back from the floor, but revealed no hidden trapdoors. The chimney was checked for hiding places and Aramis even crawled under the bed, under the amused eyes of Athos who commented that his friend clearly had more experience with such pastimes than he had.

A hand emerged, made a rude gesture, and then retracted. Minutes later, Aramis slid out and shook his head. “The housekeeper might have a face to curdle milk, but there is admirably little dust. I have exacting standards where the underside of beds are concerned.”

“And a great deal of experience. Tell me, my friend, is such a lack of dust usual, even in the best run establishments?”

Aramis looked puzzled but shook his head. “No. What are you getting at, Athos?”

“Dust leaves behind traces of someone’s presence.”

“And this room is as clean as a virgin’s…”

“Quite. Every corner swept clean, every ledge wiped down. Not a single finger mark left behind.” Athos shrugged. “I have no idea at all what it might mean, other than a zealous housekeeper and a royal visitor, but…”

“But you have not attained your advanced age without suspecting everyone and everything…”

It was Athos’s turn to make a rude gesture.

The sound of hurrying footsteps down the corridor drew both men’s attention.

D’Artagnan appeared in the doorway, his dark eyes looking troubled. “Athos, Aramis… strange things have happened in the library…”

“The Queen?” Athos demanded.

“Is fine, but her ladies – with the exception of the redoubtable Madame d’Hauteville – are making something of a fuss…”

“And you expect me to deal with them?”

D’Artagnan grinned. “No, but only because Treville is there now. I met him first.”

Aramis winced in an exaggerated manner. “The captain is a man of many virtues but…”

“…he doesn’t suffer fools gladly,” Athos finished.

“Or at all,” d’Artagnan commented ruefully, having been on the receiving end of their captain’s tongue on more than one occasion. Not that it had ever succeeded in tempering the young Gascon’s habit of being on first name terms with trouble.

Without waiting for an explanation, Athos set off down the long corridor at a run, taking the stone stairs two at a time in his haste to reach the wood-panelled library. 

The sound of loud sobs could be heard as soon as they turned the final corner and, as they drew closer, an imperious – and clearly extremely irritated – voice snapped, “Colette, stop that ridiculous noise or I will slap you myself!”

Schooling his features into a mask of polite concern instead of giving way to an amused desire to see the Queen make good on her threat, Athos entered the library at speed just in time to see a book leap, apparently of its own volition, off a high shelf.

Only the speed of Porthos’ reactions prevented the large, leather-bound volume striking the Queen as she stood in front of her hysterical lady-in-waiting, her hand raised.

Treville let loose a curse normally reserved for the training yard and swept the Queen behind him as more books flew from shelves all around the room, hitting the floor with heavy thuds. Several of the ladies were struck as they scrabbled away, shrieking loudly. Even Françoise d’Hauteville looked ashen-faced by the time the women had been ushered out into the corridor. Hélène de Beaune was white and shaking in the midst of the clutch of frightened women and clearly had no idea of what was causing the antics of the books.

Without conscious thought, Athos drew his dagger and stared around him at the hail of leather-bound volumes. One struck Aramis on the back of the head, drawing another curse unsuitable for the ears of a noblewoman but despite their vigilance they were still no nearer to identifying an enemy.

With a roar of frustration, Porthos grabbed one of the flying books and hurled it back at the shelves. The act of retaliation did nothing to stem the tide of books hurtling towards them and after a few minutes, Athos gestured to his fellow musketeers to back out of the room. 

As soon as they retired from the room, the rapid-fire hail ceased, leaving behind an unnatural silence broken only by stifled sobs and quick breathing.

“I refuse to be frightened by books,” the Queen declared, stamping her foot in annoyance.

“Well-spoken, Your Majesty,” Athos said. “There is no doubt a perfectly mundane explanation for this occurrence.” As he spoke, his eyes sought out Hélène de Beaune’s face. It was little comfort to him to see that the woman looked frankly terrified. “Aramis, d’Artagnan, see the Queen, her ladies, and the Comtesse de Beaune to other rooms…”

The Queen allowed herself to be ushered away, but Athos could tell that the enforced retreat irked her. Left alone with Porthos and Treville, he prowled around the room, picking up books and turning them over in hands, wondering if there were any clues to be had in the titles, but there nothing that would have seemed out of place in an literary _cabinet_ , although perhaps the spectre of the castle might be seen as having an uncommon affinity for Agrippa d’Aubigny, a trait it shared with one of Athos’ childhood tutors. Athos picked up _Avantures du Baron de Faeneste_ , _Confession catholique du sieur de Sancy_ and, by far his least favourite _Sa vie à ses enfants_.

“Seems wrong to throw books around,” Porthos said, prowling the room like an irate bear, poking at the wood panelling behind the shelves but failing to find any explanation for what they had just witnessed.

“If this continues, the Queen must return to Paris,” Treville said, picking up a leather-bound volume and forcibly reuniting it with a shelf. 

“Good luck with tellin’ ‘er,” Porthos commented.

Staring up at the frowning countenance of yet another dark portrait of the first Comte de Beaune, Athos was inclined to agree with their captain. He had no love of practical jokes, especially not where the Queen was concerned, and the thought of someone having access to her private rooms at night was enough by itself for him to endorse Treville’s views. Flying books heavy enough to cause injury was another good reason.

The corner of the room that housed the portrait was in shadow, darker than the rest and for the briefest of moments, Athos thought he detected a strange gleam in the eye of the long-dead owner of the castle. He turned his head away, doing his best to ignore the prickle of unease that often came from a feeling of being watched. When he looked back, the Comte’s eyes were dark once more, leaving Athos wondering what trick of the light – or his imagination – had been responsible for yet another oddity in this oddest of odd castles.

With one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, Athos followed his captain from the room.

* * * * *

“Your Majesty, I beseech you…”

“No, Captain! I will not let it be said that the Queen of France took flight from books.” 

“There is more to this matter than books, Your Majesty.” Treville looked deeply uneasy, no doubt not wishing to disclose to the Queen what had taken place in her own bedchamber. 

Athos caught Treville’s eye and gave him a slight nod. They couldn’t keep the Queen in the dark about their concerns, not if disclosure might make her more likely to agree to return to Paris.

The Queen held up one hand, imperiously cutting Treville off the moment he opened his mouth to speak. “I am perfectly well away of the activity in my bedchamber this morning. I am neither deaf nor stupid, nor am I as heavy a sleeper as my ladies like to believe. But it would have seemed an ill-reward for my musketeers’ attempts at silence to have discomfited them with my presence while they set the room to rights. I shall ask Hélène to have another chamber made up for me. Will that satisfy you?”

Treville fought to maintain a neutral expression in the face of the Queen refusal to compromise further. He succeeded, but it was clearly hard-won battle.

A gentle smile curved the Queen’s lips. “Captain Treville, I know I have no more devoted servants than you and my musketeers, and it pains me to go against you in this, but it would pain me more to desert Hélène at this time.”

Treville’s eyes softened and he swept a bow. “Your Majesty, we are – as ever – yours to command. Will you at least allow my men to remain at your side, along with your ladies, at all times?”

“They may indeed remain with me at all times, saving only my modesty, Captain.” 

The Queen held out her delicate hand and Treville took it in his scarred grasp, touching his lips lightly to her fingers, sealing their bargain. As d’Artagnan and Porthos accompanied her back into the presence of her ladies, Athos was left wondering which of them would have the dubious privilege of remaining at her side during Hélène de Beaune’s rapidly approaching confinement. From the way the woman had been holding her belly during the earlier events, he very much doubted they would have long to wait before her child decided to see what all the fuss was about.

The remainder of the day passed in tranquillity. He inspected the new room that had been prepared for the Queen, going over every inch of it with Treville and Aramis, pulling back rugs, moving every piece of furniture, tapping panels in the search for hidden ways and secret closets, but all seemed sound. By the time they declared themselves satisfied, all three of them were hot and irritable, despite the relative cool of the castle’s interior.

By the time evening came around, Athos’ nerves were strung as tight as a bow, and it was all he could do to maintain a semblance of courtly manners. 

Matty Fournier, who had been left to his own devices for most of the day, had little of substance to report other than the rumours that were now spreading through the castle like rats in a barn. According to the sour-faced housekeeper, no good ever came from the presence of strangers within the castle’s walls and the events since their arrival were the Château de la Lune’s way of expressing its disquiet at the arrival of a Spanish queen and her godless retinue – a reported remark that caused Aramis to bristle with righteous indignation and the others to look on with amusement. But the reference to the Queen’s country of origin caused Treville to double the guard on the outside of her new rooms that night.

The Comtesse de Beaune, despite doing her best to maintain a brave face, was clearly exhausted, and allowed herself to be chivvied off to bed by the Queen immediately after a relatively informal evening meal in the castle’s imposing dining room, presided over by one of the ubiquitous portraits of the first Comte, who glared down from its stone walls in the company of several large and extremely lugubrious hunting dogs. Athos, who had grown up surrounded by portraits of disapproving ancestors, would have happily turned every image of the wretched man to the wall. 

As a boy he’d always hated a particular portrait of the grandfather he’d never known. The man’s eyes had always seemed to follow him around the room, demanding obedience in his lessons and disapproving of any levity, or any small slip. Athos had not returned to his childhood home since the fire, but he imagined the old man defying the flames to the last. And for all he knew, the portrait still hung there, undamaged. But if he ever returned, that was something he would take great delight in rectifying.

Porthos and d’Artagnan took first watch. Treville had claimed the darkest hours of the night for himself and Athos would stand with him. It had been agreed that Françoise d’Hauteville and Marguerite de Chouy would remain with the Queen throughout the night, attended by Matty Fournier and one other page, a quiet lad of solid, Breton stock, judged to be able to keep his head in a crisis.

In the room he shared with Treville, Athos tugged off his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. A jug of wine stood on a table, along with a platter of bread, cheese and cold meat. He ate mechanically, barely even tasting the food, but conscious of the fact that to go without would potentially compromise his strength if it became needed. Treville poured them each a goblet of heavily-watered wine and joined Athos in picking at the food. As was his custom in times of stress, the captain paced the room like a caged bear, even while eating.

“Sit or you’ll exhaust me just watching you,” Athos said, allowing the cool liquid to slake his dry throat. 

He set down the goblet and rested his head on his crossed arms for a moment, feeling unusually exhausted for a day doing nothing, but knowing that if he stretched out on one of the beds, any prospect of sleep would vanish like mist in sunlight.

Treville paused in his pacing and rested on hand on Athos’ shoulder.

“Your muscles feel like knotted rope,” Treville commented. “Surely you don’t share Aramis’ superstitious fears?”

“You’ll get us hanged if the priest hears you talk like that,” Athos said, smiling despite his tension. Treville was usually able to maintain a pious front in public, but behind closed doors it was another matter.

“Then I may as well be hanged for something more worthwhile…” Treville’s fingers started to knead Athos’ shoulders, his swordsman’s hands strong and relentless. 

Athos stayed supine under his captain’s ministrations, raising no objection when Treville tugged his shirt out of his breeches and over his head to work directly on his heated skin. Treville’s fingers were roughed-edged, those of a man who had spent a lifetime as a soldier, leading from amongst his men. He knew Athos’ body well, and was aware of exactly where he needed to work to relieve tension, his hands moving sometimes lightly in no more than a lover’s caress and at other times pressing so firmly that Athos could barely bite back a moan. But gradually, in the face of Treville’s determination, the stubborn tension yielded and Athos finally felt a comfortable lethargy overtake him, clearing his head and allowing his thoughts to roam freely.

“The housekeeper knows a good deal more than she is saying,” Athos said quietly. “I am certain of it.”

Treville’s fingers brushed lightly over the scars on Athos’ back, bringing pleasure where once there had been pain. “As does Philippe de Beaune. He has no liking for his father’s new wife.”

“Would that dislike run to more than a few tricks?” 

“I have little experience of fathoming the minds of children.”

Athos turned his head and looked up at Treville, letting amusement quirk his lips. “Nonsense. As you like to remind us, you endure our antics on a daily basis. But to answer my own question, if, as Matty Fournier believes, Philippe thinks himself ousted in his father’s affections then maybe there is more to this than simple tricks.” 

“Ousted by the new wife or by the impending arrival of by a new baby?” 

Athos sighed and closed his eyes against unwanted memories that jostled for attention. “It could be either… or both.” 

As much as Athos had loved his younger brother, it had been hard at times not to feel jealousy. So much duty heaped on the shoulders of the eldest while the younger brother flourished as if in constant sunlight, less prone to make mistakes born of an eagerness to please.

Athos felt a soft kiss pressed to the back of his neck and Treville’s fingers started to comb gently through his hair. He allowed the feeling of gentle relaxation to deepen, chasing away memories he preferred to leave safely buried. If possible, he would try to spend time with the boy the next day, to see if the carefully-constructed barricades could be dismantled. The lad had seemed more open in the company of the soldiers, drawn to them despite his apparent desire to maintain an aloof demeanour. 

A gentle tug on his sweat-soaked hair brought him back to the moment. “Lie down on the bed, that way your neck will suffer less.”

Athos stood, taking advantage of the closeness to draw Treville’s head close for a languid kiss. It was too hot to contemplate taking pleasure in more energetic ways, and their presence could easily be demanded at a moment’s notice, but he enjoyed the simple press of lips and bodies, letting the tension engendered by the castle and its inhabitants slip from him. Their foreheads rested together for a moment, before Athos did as he’d been bidden and sprawled out on the bed, the clean linen cool against his chest.

“Am I your servant now?” his captain grumbled good-naturedly, as he bent to haul off the boots Athos had lacked the will to discard.

Athos’ only reply was a wordless grunt of appreciation before sleep claimed him.


	5. Chapter 5

“Athos, it is time to take our watch over the queen.”

The quietly-spoken words and a gentle touch on his bare shoulder drew him from a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep. In a matter of moments, Athos had pulled on his boots and jacket, donned weapons belts with sword, dagger and two pistols, downed a goblet of very watered wine and grabbed a large hunk of bread and cheese left for him by Treville.

Their boots echoed on the stone floors of the darkened corridors, with only moonlight from the narrow windows and the candlestick carried by Treville to light their way. 

Inside the Queen’s chamber, heavy brocade curtains around the bed shielded their occupant from sight. On two narrow beds, one on either side of the room, the Queen’s ladies lay fully dressed, covered only by light blankets. Françoise d’Hauteville was awake, but Marguerite de Chouy was on her back, snoring like a soldier after a night’s heaving drinking. The two pageboys were curled together on a mattress at the foot of the Queen’s bed.

Athos raised his eyebrows questioningly and received two shakes of the head in return from d’Artagnan and Porthos. The castle – or those with their minds on mischief – had clearly thought better of showing their hand in the presence of armed men who would like nothing more than the opportunity to vent their annoyance at spending a stifling night listening to noises that wouldn’t have sounded out of place in a farmyard. But at least they were spared the disapproving gaze of the first Comte be Beaune in one of the few rooms to have escaped his malevolent, framed presence.

By the time morning came, Athos was sweating freely under his jacket, hot and itchy, desperate to replace the fluid he’d lost with un-watered wine and relax in the company of his friends, but despite an uneventful night, they could not afford to relax their vigilance. He had spent much of the time in the Queen’s bedchamber turning matters over in his mind and had reached certain conclusions that he wanted the opportunity to discuss with the others.

Consigning the Queen’s care to d’Artagnan and three of the other men, Athos relieved a passing servant of a flagon of wine and led the way high up onto the castle walls in search of a cool breeze and somewhere to talk without fear of being overheard.

A light mist hung over the river, filling the wide valley with gossamer grey. The sultry night air had gone, leaving behind a welcome freshness. He leaned on the broad stone wall, looking out over the road that wound up to the main gate. The castle’s defensibility was still a major point in its favour, but Athos had no wish to be holed up like a rat in a trap. 

He took a long drink of the wine and passed the bottle to Porthos. “I want you to ride through the village with Aramis. See if you can gauge the mood of those living in the shadow of this fortress.”

Porthos swigged from the bottle, passed it to Aramis, and raised his scarred eyebrow. “What’s on your mind?”

“I do not believe in phantoms. I think someone is deliberately running us ragged, hoping to either scare us out onto the open road, or just to wear us down to the point when mistakes are made, but either way, we should not allow an unseen opponent to dictate the terms of engagement. Ride through the countryside while we keep watch here. I will see if I can get closer to Philippe de Beaune and we shall see whether young Matty can garner more gossip.” Athos glanced at Treville and received an approving nod.

“It’s a good plan. D’Artagnan and I will stay by the Queen’s side throughout the day,” their captain confirmed.

As Aramis and Porthos descended the steep spiral steps from the south tower, Athos picked up the bottle that Aramis had left on the way and passed it to Treville. “Are we doing the right thing by staying?”

“We are doing Her Majesty’s bidding,” Treville said, with the weary acceptance of a man who had been required to implement too many bad decisions against his will, a fact that did nothing to alleviate Athos’ concerns.

“I’m sure the King will see it that way if we allow her to be killed.”

Treville grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “If that happens, we’ll already be dead.”

Athos settled his hat firmly on his head. “That’s a consolation.”

Finding the Vicomte de Beaune did not prove difficult. The young man was in the main courtyard, watching two of the musketeers sparring, much as he had been doing the day before. Athos strongly suspected that he was yearning for some company closer to his own age, which was no doubt why he’d seemed happy to take Matty in tow.

“Would you do me the honour of joining me in practice?” Athos asked, gesturing to the yard. 

Surprise and delight lightened Philippe’s habitually discontented expression. “It would be my pleasure.”

The boy had been well-taught, that much was immediately apparent. His stance was good, he was light on his feet, giving ground quickly when needed, whilst managing to maintain a solid defence, and even press home the occasional advantage. But Athos had spent years honing his own skills in both practice and combat, and it was an easy matter for him to hold Philippe at bay.

He thought at first that the young vicomte would not like his mastery of the blade being challenged, but it quickly became clear that Philippe was a fast learner, eager to grasp new tricks and techniques. They soon fell into an easy routine whereby Athos would drill him mercilessly in one movement until it became second nature before moving on to another. The sun rose high in the sky while they worked, and soon they were both sweating freely, shirts clinging to their bodies and hair hanging limply around their faces.

The other musketeers in the yard had given up their own sparring and were lounging around in whatever shade they could find, offering ribald comments and calling out unhelpful suggestions. At first it was only Athos who was the butt of their humour, but gradually Philippe was drawn into the camaraderie of the practice yard, his face flushed with exertion and his eyes glittering with the pleasure of occasionally managing to hold his own in their passages of arms.

After a particularly hard-fought flurry of activity, Athos found himself genuinely on the back-foot for a fleeting moment and his young opponent was quick to capitalise on his gain, thrusting forward in what Athos took to be a feint in low line. He countered, but to his surprise and delight, Philippe succeeded in drawing him into over-extending a fraction in his riposte, allowing the younger man to pull his blade back from the feint into a genuine attack in the same line. The tip of Philippe’s sword nicked Athos’ shirt sleeve and connected briefly with the skin below, even as the thrust was expertly pulled at the last moment.

Their audience erupted in delight, with cat-calls and well-deserved applause for the young man. Philippe stepped back, breathing heavily, his handsome face wearing none of its customary shadows. He saluted Athos with his blade and then bowed deeply.

Athos returned the salute, pleased to see the animation on his young opponent’s face.

“Well fought!” Treville called from the doorway into the main keep. Athos had seen him appear there, but Philippe had not.

The Vicomte de Beaune’s smile became even wider, flushed now with pleasure as well as exhaustion. He acknowledged Treville’s words with a flourish of his rapier. Sheathing his sword, Philippe walked over to the well and accepted the bucket of water that Matty Fournier handed to him. With a broad grin, the vicomte emptied the cold water over his head and then dropped the bucket back down the well, hauling a second one back up by his own hands for Athos.

Athos hauled his sweaty shirt off, plunged his head into the bucket for a moment, and then tipped it over himself. The water was refreshingly cold, leaving his skin tingling with shock. He just hoped he wouldn’t be summoned to the Queen’s presence until he’d had time to make himself somewhat more presentable, but it had been worth the effort to break down some of the barriers surrounding the young vicomte, who was now engaged in an animated discussion of swordplay tactics with Duval, one of the younger musketeers.

Athos spent the next couple of hours lounging at ease on a bench in the courtyard, watching Philippe spar with Duval and some of the others, whilst instructing them in some tricks that wouldn’t find their way into the fencing salons of Paris, but would stand them in good stead in a real combat. The boy had the resilience of youth, barely stopping for a bite of bread and cheese in the middle of the day before persuading Duval back onto the cobbles.

From the reports Athos received during the morning through the agency of young Matty, playing messenger between himself and d’Artagnan, the morning had passed quietly, with the Queen and her queen’s ladies in waiting taking the turns to read aloud to Hélène de Beaune. There had been no twangs, dongs or flying books, for which all concerned with the Queen’s safety had been thankful.

As the shadows began to lengthen, a shout from a lookout on the castle wall signalled the return of Aramis and Porthos. Athos sent Duval and two others to relieve Treville and d’Artagnan and summon them down to the courtyard. That done, he walked to the gate to await the return of his friends. From the moment Athos saw the grim set of Aramis’ mouth, he knew the news they carried would not be welcome. The two men dismounted and flung their horses’ reins to a stable hand.

Aramis scanned the courtyard. “The captain…?”

“Is on his way,” Athos said. Whatever news the two carried, he could see it boded ill. 

While they waited, the two men refreshed themselves with water from the well then, once joined by Treville and d’Artagnan, they took wine, a flagon of clear, cold well water, and a platter of cold meat, fruit and cheese into a shady corner. Philippe de Beaune remained in the courtyard, at a distance, but there was no mistaking the look of concern on the boy’s face. For a moment, Athos debated the wisdom of inviting the boy to join them, but he was still unsure how far he could be trusted, and he was not willing to risk compromising the Queen’s safety on a whim.

“What did you witness?” Treville demanded, accepting the goblet of wine Athos held out to him.

“The villagers are afraid,” Aramis stated.

“You’re strangers to them, and well-armed,” Treville commented. “That could easily account for their fear.”

Porthos shook his head. “There was something else.”

“We saw not one single child,” Aramis supplied.

The silence that followed those words stretched thin and then snapped as Treville swore under his breath. 

“Hostages?” Athos questioned.

“That seems most likely,” Aramis said. “We rode through three villages and saw not one single child. But we saw women red-eyed from crying and men who looked like they had not slept in days. Their pretence of normality was no more than skin deep.”

“How large a force might the villages be harbouring?” Treville’s forehead was creased in a frown

Aramis shrugged. “Impossible to tell, but we heard horses stabled out of sight in a barn, and I was certain we were under the eye of marksmen as we rode.”

“Porthos, your views?”

“We were being watched the whole time, and not by friendly eyes.”

“So do we run or remain?” The question came from d’Artagnan.

“We don’t have the men to be sure of defending the Queen if we’re caught outside these walls by a well-armed force,” Athos said, reluctantly reaching the conclusion that they would indeed have to test the strength of the castle’s defences. 

“We need to get word to Paris,” Aramis stated, a look of frustration on his face.

“The roads will be watched, as is the castle.” Treville cast a glance around the courtyard. 

Athos followed the line of his gaze. The servants were going about their tasks, but there was a tension in some of them that Athos had not previously been aware of. If their guess was right and children had been taken as hostages that would mean they could not be sure of the loyalty of any of the servants who remained within the castle walls. The situation had just gone from bad to worse. Men whose kin were threatened would make bad allies. From the look on the faces of his comrades, they had formed the same view with no need of words.

“They will attack tonight,” Porthos said in an undertone. “They must know we were aware something was amiss. They may have lost the element of surprise, but they still have us cornered.”

Treville stood up. “We must take word of this to the Queen. Athos, with me. The rest of you close the gates and make sure no one leaves. Aramis, keep watch from the walls. They will wait for cover of darkness to attack, and by then we must be ready for them.”

“What of the Vicomte?” Athos said. The boy had stopped sparring and was perched on the side of the well, watching their every move. He looked ill at ease.

“I can believe him guilty of mischievous intent, but not treason. His family has always been loyal to the crown and I very much doubt that he would willingly bring dishonour on their heads. He may well be unaware of what has gone on outside these walls. But we shall see…” Treville stood up and Athos followed. As the crossed the cobbled yard, Treville tipped his hat to the young vicomte. “There are matters we need to discuss with Her Majesty,” he said quietly. “Will you join us, Vicomte?”

For a brief moment, Philippe was slack-jawed with amazement, but the boy stood quickly, squaring his shoulders, and dropping one hand on his sword hilt.

With Athos and Philippe following behind, the captain strode through the echoing passages of the Château de la Lune wearing an expression that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the dark visage of the young vicomte’s illustrious ancestor.

* * * * *

.”A plot against the Queen?” The Comtesse de Beaune sounded utterly aghast and all colour had drained abruptly from her face. “That cannot be! My people are not traitors…”

“It is our belief that your people are acting under duress, Comtesse,” Treville said. “We believe their children are being held hostage for their compliance.”

At the mention of children, Hélène de Beaune, dropped both hands to her distended belly. Athos fervently hoped that the action didn’t herald the imminent arrival of her own offspring.

The Queen put her hands over those of her friend and spoke earnestly to her. “Hélène, your loyalty is not in question, nor that of your family, but we must put the defence of this castle in the hands of Captain Treville. My musketeers have never failed me. We are safe in their hands; you may trust me on this.”

The Comtesse gasped and shifted uneasily in her chair, her hands clutching even tighter to her belly. “My waters…”

A look of something akin to horror settled on Treville’s face. The captain had faced the news of a plot against the woman he was sworn to serve with considerably more equanimity that the realisation that the Comtesse was now in the early stages of childbirth.

The Queen promptly took charge of the situation, summoning her ladies with one hand whilst dismissing her musketeers with an imperious wave. “Captain Treville, order matters as you see fit, but I will be remaining in the castle with the Comtesse. Is that understood?”

Treville swept a deep bow. “It shall be as Your Majesty commands. Athos, Vicomte, we need to talk…”

As they left the salon, the Queen’s ladies clustered around the Comtesse, hiding her from view. The presence of men was very definitely not required. 

Treville instructed the two musketeers on guard duty to remain outside the room while he led the others to the small sitting room he had commandeered. 

Pausing barely a heartbeat to allow Athos to close the door, Treville rounded on Philippe de Beaune. “Vicomte, I apologise for what I am about to ask of you, but you must understand that with Her Majesty’s life at stake, I can leave nothing to chance. I will ask once only… did you know anything about this plot?”

Pride flared in the young man’s dark eyes. “Produce a Bible, Captain, and you shall have your answer.”

Athos reached for a leather-bound Bible that he had seen on an oak writing desk in a corner of the room and held it out to Treville. The captain passed it to Philippe. The vicomte rested his right hand on the book and his left of the hilt of his sword. “By this Holy Book and before God I swear on my life and on my immortal soul that I knew nothing of any plot against the Queen.”

Treville nodded. 

There had been no lie in the boy’s eyes, Athos was sure of that. He might well have been guilty of some mischief at their expense, but he was certain it went no further than that.

“We will need your help organising the defence of the castle,” Athos told him. “We need to know what men we can trust and which ones we would be better without. If the Queen’s enemies have the children from the villages, it might be that all here are compromised.”

Philippe shook his head. “Not all, but certainly most. What will you do with those that cannot be trusted? There is a dungeon beneath the castle. It is rarely used but still serviceable.”

“We will send them back to their wives,” Treville said. “That way they will not be accused of having collaborated with us.”

If Philippe was surprised by Treville’s decision, he gave no sign of it. With his assistance, they called in all the men and women that he believed could be trusted. It seemed the Comte de Beaune drew a proportion of his retainers from other estates, a policy that enabled them to add 15 men and six women to the pitifully small tally of defenders but it was still more than Athos had expected. The Queen had been escorted by 25 musketeers, ten coachmen and six valets. That gave them 56 able-bodied men who could – with varying degrees of skill – wield both swords and firearms. Added to that were four pageboys, who would be of assistance in reloading weapons, as would several of the women.

The remaining men and women were mustered in the courtyard, fear in their eyes, waiting to hear their fate.

Philippe de Beaune addressed them. “We know this plot against the Queen is not of your making. You may go from here in peace, and you will be welcome to return once the threat to our Queen has been dealt with. Free your children if you can. And aid those that wish harm to Her Majesty as little as you can. May God go with you all, and with your families.”

Athos watched approvingly. If they survived this, the Vicomte had just earned himself the loyalty of every man and woman in the courtyard, and their families. He heard the murmurs of thanks as the servants turned to go. On the battlements above the main gate, Aramis stood with a spyglass trained on the track up to the castle. When he gave the signal, the gates were opened to allow the men and women to file out. The massive oak gates closed quickly behind them.

The Château de la Lune was now under siege.


	6. Chapter 6

As the men and women from the château made their way down the track, the sun was sinking behind the hills and the shadows started to lengthen around them. Clouds were already massing in the sky and the moon was new and would cast little light. If, as seemed likely, it started to rain hard, they would have little chance of keeping torches alight and would be unable to use the defenders standard trick of using torchlight to draw an enemy’s shot to the wrong place. 

The attack would come as dusk passed into night, Athos was sure of that, and Treville, a veteran of countless campaigns, agreed. Night attacks were notoriously risky, but in this case, some aspects were simple, if you were an attacker attempting to storm the castle, everyone inside was your enemy, and by the same token, everyone outside it your friend. 

Treville had stationed men at strategic points around the walls, enabling the defenders to keep watch on all sides, no matter how difficult the approach might seem. The captain was fond of recounting the story of how the gates of the famous fortress Château Gaillard had been opened from within by one man who had scaled chalk cliffs nearly 400 feet high and then inched his way up the outside of the walls and then in through the filth and slime of a midden chute, thus giving the lie to King Richard’s proud boast that he could hold the castle against an enemy even were its walls had been made of cheese. 

As soon as they had gone into defensive mode, the captain had promptly ordered every midden hole nailed shut with stout board. As Treville was fond of pointing out, no matter how improbable a line of attack might be, there was still no excuse for leaving it uncovered. His second order had been for buckets to be placed at equally strategic positions. From now on, the need to take a piss or a shit could be put to good use and the results rained down on the heads of anyone who got too close. They’d learned that trick the hard way from the defenders at La Rochelle.

“How goes it with the Comtesse?” Athos asked as Treville appeared at his shoulder on one of his tours of the battlements.

“Wailing like a stuck pig, according to Matty. I’ve succumbed to his pleading and given him the job of carrying messages instead of waiting on the Queen.”

Athos nodded. “He’s earned that privilege for his performance on the way here. The lad has a level head.”

Treville grinned in the growing darkness. “He’ll need it when the lead starts flying. But the male of the species is very definitely not wanted in the Comtesse’s chambers at the moment. I hear tell our fragile-looking lady has been heard to say that if she ever sees her husband’s cock again, she’ll cut it off at the root and feed it to her lap-dog.”

Athos winced. He had little experience of the act of childbirth and preferred to remain in ignorance of what went on behind closed doors at such times. Battlefield injuries he could take in his stride, but the thought of a woman trying to extrude something the size of a baby’s head from between her legs was enough to drive him to drink.

“What do you think of our chances?” he asked, in a voice too low to be heard by anyone else.

“I’d be happier if we had a means of getting a messenger out of here,” Treville admitted. “But they will be watching the castle like hawks, and have probably been doing so since our arrival. I doubt they have the means to take this place by storm, but even if we had the whole of the Regiment here, rather than just a quarter of its strength, I would still prefer to know that a relief force is on its way.”

“This place is as defensible as any I’ve seen,” Athos said. “We are well-armed, with plentiful power and shot. And I doubt we’ll run out of food before either the King or the Comte send word to enquire of their ladies’ well-being.”

Treville clapped him on the shoulder. “Optimism suits you. You should try it more often.”

A piercing whistle, akin to that of a finch in search of seed, reverberated around the castle walls. Aramis had seen movement from somewhere below them. Athos pulled his spyglass from his belt and scanned the killing ground in front of the gates, gradually widening the scope of his search. He caught sight of someone dodging behind a rock… A moment later a musket ball sent chips flying from a wall no more than an arm’s length from where Athos was standing.

It appeared the attack was now under way.

“Hold your fire!” Treville bellowed in a voice that carried along the walls with ease. “Unless you have a clear target, waste no shot!”

The defenders heeded his words and waited, watchful and tense.

The silence that followed the captain’s words stretched to breaking point.

A musket report shattered the tension. More stone chips flew off the wall but the defenders heeded Treville’s words and there was no answering fire. Everyone on the castle walls kept their heads down and waited until they could choose their target.

First blood fell – unsurprisingly – to Aramis. The sharpshooter caught sight of movement down the track and exploited the moment of weakness. A pained cry carried to their ears and Athos saw a dark shape slump to the ground. Hands reached out and pulled him back into cover but Athos knew the man was beyond help. 

A volley of answering shots flew around them. One of the castle’s defenders was sloppy enough to present a target, recoiling a moment later, clutching his arm. Treville’s verbal response was as blistering as the musket ball. The man dropped to his knees, white-faced and shaking, clutching his arm. If he expected sympathy from Treville, he was sorely mistaken. The man was hauled off to have his arm dressed and then instructed to reload for his companions. Treville had no intention of allowing anyone to shirk their duties, as those in the castle would soon learn.

The attackers had constructed large shields of thick woven hay, light to carry, but surprisingly effective against musket fire. Using them to aid their advance, they were able to keep up a barrage of shots whilst still gaining ground, but Aramis had them in his sights and was ready to exploit any sign of weakness.

Leaving Treville to keep watch over the main gate, Athos toured the castle walls, checking that they had left no weak points uncovered, ready with an encouraging word where needed. With him walked the Vicomte de Beaune. The young man had displayed admirable qualities of leadership, and the castle folk clearly looked up to their young lord.

On impulse, Athos remarked quietly, “Your pranks certainly kept us on our toes. If we survive this night, you must show me how it was all done.”

Philippe stopped, one hand on the wall, his handsome face turned to Athos, suddenly looking more like an uncertain schoolboy than a young lord. “My apologies. I meant no harm. They were simple tricks: a clockwork device concealed behind a panel in the wall of the music room; a secret tunnel leading to the Queen’s rooms…”

“The books?”

“Moving sections in the shelves. Easy to push the books and then pull the panels back into place.”

“You played us for fools,” Athos said, smiling ruefully. “We should have looked harder at the walls.”

“The castle guards its secrets well. But believe me, I’m truly sorry. It was nothing but a childish prank. I should have known better.” 

Even in the gathering gloom, Athos could see that the boy’s handsome face was scarlet with shame. Before he could reply, a volley of shots from outside the gate caused them both to duck down, sighting between the battlements for a target.

“Hold,” Athos said. “We’ll do no good at this range, not while they’re behind those damn shields.”

“Can we fire them?” Philippe asked.

“Unlikely. They will have soaked the straw in water.”

“But even if they reach the gate, there’s little they can do. It won’t yield easily and they have no means of forcing a passage.”

Athos stared down at the attackers, pressing forward, straw shields held in front of them and above their heads. Philippe was right, even if they reached the gate, they could hardly bring it down with a few well-aimed kicks. At first he’d wondered if they’d been carrying gunpowder, but there had been no sign of that – not yet, at least. So why were they braving musket shot from above simply to get closer to the gate? The main gate was the most heavily guarded approach to the castle. To make up for the lack of natural defences on that side, the gate-towers had been constructed to provide a perfect killing ground, with arrow-slit windows covering every inch of the approach.

It made no sense.

Unless it actually made perfect sense.

Athos turned to Philippe de Beaune and grasped the young man’s shoulders. “There’s something we don’t know that they do. What is it?” He tightened his grip. “You know all the castle’s secrets. What do they know that we don’t? Answer me truthfully, our lives depend on it. This is no time for tricks or games.”

Philippe’s eyes widened and Athos saw the heat drain from the boy’s face leaving it as pale as the hidden moon. “There is nothing,” he said, but there was no mistaking the uncertainty in his voice.

“There is,” Athos said. “I know there is. I just don’t know what it is. This attack is a cleverly constructed feint and nothing more. Where do they intend to strike that will hit us hard?”

“It’s impossible,” Philippe said hesitantly. “None other than the Beaunes know all the secrets of the Château de la Lune.”

“You weren’t acting alone in your pranks,” Athos said, pressing home his advantage against the Vicomte’s uncertainty. “Who helped you? Was it Madame Boucher?” The sour-faced housekeeper was the most likely suspect.

Philippe’s eyes widened. “They were jokes, nothing more. Boucher has served my father for many years… she would never…”

“Betray her Queen? I think you’re wrong. What secret does she know that this feint is designed to draw us away from?”

“There is something, a secret known only to the family…”

“Tell me!”

“The tunnels,” Philippe said, not meeting Athos’ eyes. “There is a secret way from the lower levels of the castle to the base of the hill. It connects with a network of caves. But the way out at the bottom is closed. It is for use when all our defences have failed. But Boucher does not…”

Athos shook his head. “Assume she knows. And assume she is a traitor.”

“Then the Queen’s life is at risk!” Philippe looked shocked, his dark eyes pleading with Athos to allay his fears. “Hélène’s too.”

“Come, we need to find Treville!”

The captain was directing the defence from the courtyard. He heard what Athos had to say, a frown forming on his face. “We need to send men to these tunnels, but if we draw too many men from here, we will do half their work for them. They have kegs of gunpowder waiting now.”

“The caves are not large,” Philippe said. “A small force could hold out down there against larger numbers.”

“Aramis!” Treville called. “The defence of the castle walls is in your hands.” He turned to young Matty Fournier. “Take a message to d’Artagnan. The Queen and the Comtesse de Beaune are to remain in his charge. Warn him that the castle might be under attack from within. Find five musketeers and ensure they remain with Her Majesty.”

Matty bobbed his head in acknowledgment and took to his heels.

“Captain?” Porthos appeared at Treville’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Maybe everything, maybe nothing,” Treville said. “Vicomte, take us to these tunnels.”

Philippe nodded and took the stone steps to the courtyard two at a time, Athos, Treville and Porthos behind him. He led them into a series of storerooms below the castle, snatching up a lighted lantern on the way, gesturing to them to do likewise.

With vaulted stone above their heads and echoing stone flags beneath their boots, they ran through the warren of cellars beneath the castle. Ahead, Athos could see the light of another lantern. He swept his sword from its sheath, even though he was facing a woman.

The housekeeper stared defiantly at him. “You are too late, Musketeer!”

Athos rolled his eyes. “Theatrical, but I think you’re wrong. You might have betrayed your Queen and your Lord, but the castle’s defences have not yet been breached.”

“Why, Boucher?” Philippe asked, his voice breaking on the question.

The woman glared defiantly at him and then spat on the floor at his feet. “That is as much as I care for your Catholic queen, may she rot in Hell!”

“Athos, secure her! Vicomte, lead us on,” Treville ordered.

Athos sheathed his sword, but used his dagger to cut a length of cloth from the hem of the woman’s skirt. She spat at him like a cornered cat and tried to rake him with her nails, but he was in haste and she had endangered the life of the woman he was sworn to protect. Athos was not gentle, but he was quick. He bound her hand and foot and left her trussed on the stone floor. As an afterthought, he cut some more material from her skirt and wadded it into a ball in her mouth. Her eyes flashed defiance at him. He inclined his hat to her and hurried after the other three.

At the far end of the cellar, a flagstone stood up against the wall, below it a gaping, dark hole. With the lantern held in his left hand, Athos could see a narrow flight of stone steps leading down into the ground. Knowing that the others had gone that way before him, Athos quickly followed. With the feint on the gate well advanced, Athos was sure that the force hoping to take the castle by guile would not be far away.

The steps wound down into the rock beneath the castle, finally levelling out on a dry, sandy floor that reminded him of the many stone quarries beneath the streets of Paris, but then the walls took on a rougher look and Athos realised he was now in a natural cavern, hung with fantastic pale rock formations that cast ominous shadows in the light of the lantern. Lamps burned in carved niches in the rock. Boucher had clearly lit the way for her fellow conspirators.

He heard a cry up ahead and a pistol shot echoed off the walls. Athos drew his sword again and ran forward. The passage narrowed and he saw Porthos grappling with two assailants. The big musketeer had his hands full, but it was impossible for anyone to come to his aid without endangering him as well. Treville, a pistol in either hand, slipped past the mêlée, drawing a shot from further down the passage, which he evaded by ducking into a recess in the rock.

Philippe de Beaune, sword in hand, waited in the wider cavern, ready to engage anyone who was able to pass Porthos and Treville. The young Vicomte was right in his assessment that a small force could hold off larger numbers here. The tunnel was a natural bottleneck for any attackers and one that the Queen’s enemies had clearly been hoping to have gone through unhindered thanks to Boucher’s treachery. Athos presumed from the woman’s words that she was a Huguenot and that the Queen’s visit had proved too good an opportunity to be missed. In view of the speed with which the visit had been put together, he hoped that there had been little time to assemble a large force.

A sharp crack signalled that Porthos had managed to put one of his assailants out of the fight. The sound of a skull meeting rock made Philippe blanch but his sword was steady in his hand. He was ready to play his own part in the defence of his Queen and his family. Athos motioned with his free hand for Philippe to stay out of pistol shot. 

With a roar like an angry bull, Porthos hurled his remaining opponent at his fellow conspirators then promptly ducked as Treville discharged his pistol down the passage, sure of a hit in the narrow tunnel. A cry of pain rewarded the captain’s efforts. To draw their opponents’ fire and give Treville time to reload, Athos sheathed his sword and took his own pistol in hand.

There was a confused jumble of shadowy forms in a passage too narrow for two to walk abreast. An injured comrade is harder to deal with than a dead one. Athos hoped he could add to their difficulties…

He fired. Another cry followed. Their returned shots flew harmlessly past him. He counted three. Undisciplined, just what he’d been hoping for. He tossed his second pistol to Philippe, who caught it deftly. Athos had not seen the vicomte use firearms but the boy could hardly miss in the confined space of the tunnel, and Athos could reload his own weapon faster than he would trust anyone else to do it.

Porthos bellowed again, his voice as much of a weapon in the confined space as his sword or pistol, and fired two shots in close succession before barrelling back into the chamber, with Treville hard on his heels, discharging his pistols in the confined space, adding to the acrid gun smoke now filling the passage.

Athos and Philippe each had a shot left. Porthos and Treville started to reload as soon as they’d ducked into cover, hands moving surely in the near darkness. Treville insisted on regular drills, blindfolded, until his men were as sure of reloading in the dark as they were in daylight. 

There was only one way Athos could think of that their attackers could manage to make progress up the killing ground of the tunnel. Whether they would take it remained to be seen. But if this deadlock wasn’t broken soon, the attempt on the castle would be doomed and they would know that as well as he did.

Athos nodded to Philippe. 

The Vicomte de Beaune dropped to one knee and leaned into the mouth of the tunnel, carefully not presenting a target where it would be looked for first. His reactions had the speed of youth and he was able to fire and duck back before being seen. Without having to be asked, he quickly tossed the pistol back to be reloaded.

Athos caught it, poured in a measure of power, rammed the shot and wadding home, primed the flashpan and it was ready to fire again. Throwing a loaded pistol carried a high risk of triggering an accidental discharge, but that was a risk they would just have to take. Even in the smoky semi-darkness, Philippe’s catches were deft and fortune was clearly smiling on them. The boy went down on his stomach, ready to take another unexpected line of fire.

A volley of shots in tunnel signified that their attackers had grown tired of waiting.

“Hold!” Treville ordered, his command just audible over the echoing gunshots.

Athos allowed himself a swift look into the passage. A man, his head lolling forwards onto his chest, spilling blood and brains down himself, lurched towards them. The dead body provided an effective but grisly shield, preventing a shot reaching anyone behind it in the narrow passage. It was a brave attempt, but the person holding the body upright would be exposed as soon as he came into the chamber. What happened next would depend on how willing their attackers were to take losses.

This was a desperate throw of the dice to get them out of the narrow passage and into the chamber where they could fight on more equal terms. Boucher had no doubt briefed them well on what to expect under the Château de la Lune, but they had not been expecting determined opposition – or even any opposition at all.

Treville wheeled out in front of the tunnel opening, firing over the shoulder of the corpse in the hope of hitting someone behind. Whether he had been successful, Athos had no idea. Moments later, the body was thrown forward into their midst and in the swirling smoke from their pistol shots, men leaped across the lifeless form now sprawled on the rough sandy floor of the chamber. 

Their attacker’s gamble had paid off. No shots could now be fired for fear of catching their own comrades in the crossfire.

Philippe de Beaune, prone on the floor, went unnoticed, and while Athos and the others swept out their swords and engaged the enemy, he fired down the passage, a grunt of pain barely audible over the sudden noise of blade on blade. One less enemy to engage with, Athos presumed. The boy had an admirably cool head. 

The conditions were not ideal for swordplay. Acrid smoke had billowed into the chamber, stinging eyes and throats, and the light of the lanterns in the wall niches was at best poor, casting treacherous shadows. The man Athos had engaged had more height and reach, but lacked technique. At his side, Porthos had taken on two opponents, wielding his sword with such power that neither could come close to him. Treville had one man pressed back up against the rough rock wall while nearby, Philippe danced nimbly around a larger, heavier attacker, holding his own calmly despite the fact that this was almost certainly his first experience of close-quarter combat against an opponent who would not pull his blows at the last moment.

A stone turned under Athos’s heel and he lurched sideways. The man he was engaged with jumped forwards, sword outstretched to take advantage of the momentary weakness in Athos’ defence. Athos used his own momentum to his advantage, dropping under the strike and rolling on the uneven floor, forcing the man to over-extend his lunge. Athos came to his feet fast, crouching in a stance that owed more to a knife-fight than an encounter with swords. He struck for the man’s exposed stomach with his sword point while at the same time slashing with his dagger at his opponent’s thigh. Both blows connected. 

Athos pulled his sword free and struck quickly for the man’s throat. A gush of blood bore witness to his success. He took a moment to take stock of the chaos in the chamber. One of Porthos’ assailants was down and wouldn’t rise again. Treville had killed one man and engaged another and, as he watched, Philippe de Beaune’s blade buried itself deep in his opponent’s chest and the man crumpled to his knees.

They were holding their own, but there were others to take the place of the dead. It was vital that they allowed none to pass them and gain the interior of the castle, which allowed no room for error.

Athos quickly sheathed his dagger and tossed his sword to his left hand as he pulled his pistol free and fired at a man emerging from the tunnel. The shot was in haste and wounded rather than killed, but Treville was close enough to take advantage of the damage done and dispatch the man with a quick, brutal strike from his dagger. 

The Captain of the Musketeers had lost none of his edge when it came to combat.


	7. Chapter 7

The battle for control of the cave continued. 

Like all hard-fought combats, it was unrelenting and bloody. At some point, Athos had sustained an injury to his sword arm, and he could feel warm blood tracking down his flesh, threatening to compromise his grip. But the rush of battle through his veins blocked any pain more effectively than laudanum could have done, while still leaving him in possession of his senses. The air reeked of gunpowder, blood, sweat and shit. Much the same as any battlefield he had known.

There was no time to regroup or even communicate. Each man had to trust his comrades to fight their own battles. Porthos had bloody running from a cut of his cheek, Treville appeared to be favouring one leg and there was a long gash in Philippe’s leather doublet, but the boy still fought with a deadly combination of ferocity and style.

Athos had seen no new attackers had emerged from the tunnel. The odds were now in their favour and they had a chance of ending this fight. Their opponents were tough and unwilling to back down, but Athos and his companions were fighting for the life of their Queen and they were determined that no one would get passed them into the castle.

Philippe was the first to finish his assailant. Athos was too occupied with his own battle to be aware of the details, but as his own opponent crumpled to the ground clutching his chest, he saw Philippe spring to Treville’s aid as their captain stumbled slightly, leaving an opening for the huge bear of a man he was fighting. The blade that darted forward towards Treville’s unprotected side was swiftly parried by Philippe and he engaged the man long enough for the captain to scramble to his feet and dash a handful of sand and stones at the man’s face, before burying his dagger to the hilt in his opponent’s chest. 

Porthos, not to be outdone, let out one of his famous yells and drove his attacker back towards the wall of the cave, leaving him nowhere to go and little room to manoeuvre. In Athos’ mind, the outcome was never in doubt. The man was no match for Porthos in strength or skill.

The sound of a pistol shot rang out above the harsh rasp of breath as Porthos drove his sword home through the thick, padded leather doublet covering his opponent’s chest. In the smoke left behind by their earlier passage of arms, Athos watched as a man standing in the entrance to the tunnel staggered and fell, the pistol he’d been pointing at Treville, unnoticed by any of them, falling from a now nerveless hand. The last of their attackers had been biding his time, hoping to take them unawares.

Athos swung around, trying to locate the position of whoever had fired the shot. The noise had come from behind him, in the direction of the steps up to the castle.

Crouched at the bottom of stone stairs, Matty Fournier stared up at him, a second loaded pistol now pointing at the floor of the cave.

“Good shooting,” Athos said. “How long have you been there?”

“Saw you kill your man,” Matty told him. The boy looked around, an awed look on his face. “It’s bad down here, but up there it’s a madhouse. The Comtesse has just popped one and the midwife says there’s another on the way. Told you she was settin’ a clutch!”

Philippe de Beaune leaned back against the wall of the cave and started to unlace his tunic to examine the damage underneath. “Is Hélène well?”

“Yes, but your father’s cock won’t be. She swears blind she’s mincing it and feeding it to the dogs – while it’s still attached to him!” As he spoke, the boy was carefully reloading his pistol, mischief warring with concentration on his face.

Philippe winced. Athos hoped it was in sympathy for his father, not for his own wounds.

“How goes the defence?” Treville demanded.

“The gate still holds and they’ve taken losses. But Aramis is certain they aim to try to blow their way inside if the gates aren’t opened for them first.”

“We need to so something,” Philippe said. He gestured to the tunnel, half-blocked with corpses. “If we take that passage it will bring us out at the base of the hill and we can come up behind them without being seen. They will not be watching that side of the track.”

Treville nodded approvingly. It was clear the captain of the musketeers had no desire to fight like a rat in a trap when they stood a chance of taking the battle to the enemy.

Porthos grinned widely. “Let’s do it.”

“Matty, take word to Aramis of what we intend,” Athos said. “I’ve no desire to have him spread my guts across the hillside when all we’re trying to do is save his sorry arse.”

“Before that, send d’Artagnan to us,” Treville said. “Five musketeers with Her Majesty will be enough when the main threat is outside the castle.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “And as Athos said, that was good shooting. I owe you my life, whelp. There’ll be a commission in the Regiment for you when you’re old enough.”

The look of naked joy on the boy’s face brought a smile to Athos’ lips.

Matty jumped to his feet. “Yes, captain!” The boy stuck his pistol through his belt and scrambled away up the steep stone steps.

“We need to tend our wounds and strip the bodies of their pistols,” Treville ordered. “There’ll be no time to reload when we launch this attack. We take as many as we can carry.”

It was grim work. They used strips cut from their attackers’ shirts to wipe the blood from their wounds and bind the lacerations as best they could, then they dragged the dead bodies into the chamber to methodically strip them of any weapons that would be of use. Two men were still alive, but severely injured, one with half his face blown away, the other with a massive hole in his guts. Athos raised his eyebrows questioningly at Treville.

The captain shook his head and drew his dagger to end the men’s pain. Athos was not surprised. They had the housekeeper to question. They would gain little by taking captives at this stage, and it was doubtful that either would have survived for long. In the end, their deaths were kinder than they deserved.

Philippe de Beaune watched their wordless exchange, his face impassive then, when the men were dead, he calmly stripped them of daggers and pistols and started to load and prime the weapons. Matty Fourier wasn’t the only one who would make an admirable musketeer.

By taking extra belts from the dead men, they were each able to carry four loaded and primed pistols, with two spare for d’Artagnan. Athos had just finished settling the extra weaponry around his waist when he heard the sound of boots on the steps into the cave.

D’Artagnan was carrying a lighted candle and as he took in the pile of bodies and the spilt blood on the rocky floor, a look of excitement quickened in his dark eyes. “I thought I was going to miss all the action,” he exclaimed.

“Haven’t things been exciting enough for you?” Treville said.

The young Gascon grimaced. “If that’s the end result, I might never go with a woman again.”

“It’s normally the women who say that.” Porthos clapped his friend on the back. “Would we leave you out of a fight?”

“You kept this one to yourselves.”

Athos handed d’Artagnan a belt and two loaded pistols then turned to Philippe. “Tell us now what we will encounter when we leave here.”

From Philippe’s description, they would follow the tunnel down through the hillside. The exit at the bottom was previously sealed and he didn’t know how much of it the attackers had broken through. The tunnel led out to the base of the hill, behind some undergrowth. From there they could take a longer route and come up along the path, but that would leave them exposed for much of the way. Alternatively, there was a shorter, steeper route that involved some climbing. It would be difficult in the dark but not impossible. 

“We take the short way,” Treville decided. “Philippe, you will lead us. D’Artagnan and Athos will follow you, then Porthos. I will bring up the rear.”

The tunnel was tall enough for all but Porthos to walk upright, wider than Athos’ shoulders by less than a hand’s breadth on either side. The lanterns they were able to carry on this part of their route showed the pale pick-marks on the walls where every step of the way had been hewn from solid rock. 

At one point, the tunnel curved slightly, and Athos could see that a hole in the wall had been blocked in. He tapped Philippe on the shoulder and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“The castle well is on the other side. We’re now directly below the courtyard.”

The labour involved in creating this escape route must have been immense. According to Philippe, the work had been done four generations ago, and had been a jealously guarded secret, known only to the Beaune family. How Boucher had discovered the entrance in the cellars beneath the castle, he didn’t know, but she had worked for first his grandfather and then his father, so he had to admit there was probably little she didn’t know about the Château de la Lune’s secrets.

As they moved ever downwards, Athos could feel some movement of air in the passage, which was a relief, as he had to admit that the encompassing rock was starting to feel oppressive. When Philippe and d’Artagnan came to a halt in front of him, Athos realised they must be close to the exit. 

In a hushed voice, Philippe ordered them all to wait while he investigated the last section of passage, to ensure no guards had been stationed nearby.

They waited in silence, hands on their weapons, until Philippe returned. The way out was clear, but he had heard gunshots and cries up above them so the battle for control of the gate was still in progress. The cloud cover was patchy, and the moon was casting little light, but there had, as yet, been no rain. For that, Athos was grateful. Rain would have made the climb even more treacherous and made use of their pistols difficult, if not impossible.

The tunnel had originally ended in a blank wall, but now part of that had been knocked through, allowing them to squeeze through into a shallow cave at the base of the cliff. For Athos, slipping through the narrow gap was not hard, but for Porthos it was far more of a struggle, and the big musketeer had to divest himself of his weapons belts and jacket before being able to follow. From the other side, what was left of the obstruction was indistinguishable from the cave wall.

Marvelling at the skill of the engineers who had been able to accurately drive a tunnel through several hundred feet of solid rock and bring it out in such a small space as the cave, Athos extinguished his lamp, as did the others, to allow their eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.

When they were all ready, Philippe have the final orders. “Follow the movements of the person in front of you. Try not to dislodge any loose rock. When you reach the top, there is a small platform below the level of the track with some boulders that will provide cover.” He looked at Treville. “Beyond that, I’m in your hands.”

Treville smiled wolfishly. “Beyond that, we try to kill as many of them as we can whilst trying to remain alive.”

“Good plan.” Porthos gave a wide grin. “I like that plan.”

Philippe nodded and, without wasting words, parted the undergrowth in front of the rock shelter and slipped through, moving like a phantom in the darkness. D’Artagnan followed, with Athos behind him. 

The first part of the climb was relatively easy. A narrow goat-track hugged the side of the cliff, steeply angled but still plainly a path. They moved as silently as possible in the darkness, while above them they could hear the occasional shouts and shots. In front of Athos, the path started to narrow and he suddenly realised that d’Artagnan and Philippe were no longer in front of him. They’d started the ascent of the cliff itself.

Luckily for Athos, the clouds had parted slightly, allowing pale, watery moonlight to cast silvered light on the rocks above him. Doing his best to mark where d’Artagnan has placed his feet, Athos began the ascent. It was easier than he expected, but he lived in constant dread of dislodging a rock, sending it clattering down to the valley below. Climbing with a sword at his side and burdened with four pistols was not the easiest feat to accomplish, but slowly and surely, they were all gaining height, coming closer to the ledge Philippe had described.

Athos took advantage of another break in the clouds to look up and mark the remainder of the route as best he could. He was in time to see d’Artagnan’s boots disappearing over the lip of the ledge. A few small stones came off and pattered down on Athos’s face just as he was reaching up with his hand for the next hold. At the same time, one booted foot slipped, leaving him in the precarious position of holding himself in place with only one hand. He bit back a curse, tightening the grip of his right hand on the rock. Pain ripped through his arm and Athos knew he’d reopened the bandaged wound. Setting his teeth against the pain, Athos groped for a foothold with the toe of his boot.

Panic rose in him as he felt nothing but smooth rock. Unaccustomed fear churned in his stomach. Athos flailed with his foot, desperate to find something to bear his weight as he felt his other foot start to slip. Fear of falling warned with fear of dislodging something and alerting their enemies to their presence but then a large hand from below steered his foot to a protuberance on the cliff and he was able to re-establish his precarious position on the rock face. For such a large man, Porthos seemed to be making light work of the climb and Athos was thankful for his vigilance.

A hand reached down from above and grasped his wrist. With d’Artagnan’s welcome aide, Athos hauled himself onto the ledge, doing his best to draw breath quietly, when every instinct was screaming at him to flop there like a stranded fish, gulping for air. Porthos joined him then aided the last part of Treville’s climb. In the wan moonlight, Athos could see that the captain’s face was pinched and drawn. Once on the relative safety of the ledge, his hand shook slightly as he reached down to rub the leg he had been favouring in their underground struggle. It seemed that Athos wasn’t the only one who’d had an eventful ascent. It had been hard for him but for Treville, with a leg that could not wholly be trusted, it must have been a nightmare from hell.

The lead in the phase of their enterprise had subtly shifted to the two youngest members of the group. D’Artagnan and Philippe de Beaune were crouched in the cover of rock, surveying the scene and relaying details of the assault on the main gate in tones to low to carry above the noise from the siege. The attackers had abandoned any pretence of secrecy and were doing their best to manoeuvre two large barrels of gunpowder to the gate, whilst Aramis and the castle’s defenders did their best to pick off anyone ill-advised enough to all any part of their bodies to be seen behind their large shields.

Numerous bodies lay on the ground, but the besiegers still had enough men at their disposal to be dangerous. One barrel was in place, but the battle to get the second one there was being hard-fought.

Between them, Athos and his companions had twenty pistol shots, fewer if any misfired. They would have to make every shot count. After that, they would have no choice other to engage at close-quarters and to do so would make it hard to rely on any support from above, as telling friend from foe on a dark night would not be an easy task. Their position was too precarious to allow them the luxury of reloading.

They each moved carefully into position. The ledge was large enough to allow three of them spaced out, with Athos and Treville behind them, ready to take up position when the first volley of shots was exhausted. It was important not to be close to the man next to you in case a stray spark lit the power in the wrong firing pan.

“Ready?” d’Artagnan murmured. A moment later, once he had received the affirmative from everyone, the young Gascon fired the first shot.

There was little time to think. Reactions honed by long training and combat experience took over, allowing Athos to become oblivious to the noise, the smoke and the smell of black powder. The first volley was over with startling rapidity. He and Treville came to their feet, calmly choosing their targets amongst the chaos they’d caused in the midst of the castle’s besiegers. The first man he aimed at fell, the bullet taking him in the head. Athos knew he wouldn’t rise again. The second shot went slightly wide, taken his mark in the shoulder, not the chest, but it would be enough to incapacitate.

Their enemies scrabbled to return fire, but the confusion was great, especially as musket fire kept coming from the walls, catching the besiegers between a rock and a hard place. 

Athos elected to keep two loaded pistols in reserve and a glance at Treville told him the captain agreed. 

“Give the signal,” Athos ordered.

D’Artagnan stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle, three times in succession, the signal for a cessation in Aramis’ sniping. The noise split the air, audible even over return fire and confused cries. The shots in their direction were wild, fired with no clear target in mind and, more than anything else, told Athos that whoever was directing the operation had committed their best men to the underground attack. The rest were displaying a comforting lack of discipline.

As the sound of the whistle echoed back at them off the castle walls, d’Artagnan swept his sword from its sheath and ran at the man nearest to him. Philippe de Beaune did the same. Doing his best to keep an eye on the boy, Athos did the same, with Treville and Porthos at his side.

The besiegers were torn between still wanting to manoeuvre the second barrel of gunpowder into place and the need to defend their backs against a new and unexpected enemy. The musketeers took full advantage of the confusion, dealing death with swift brutality.

Realising that the shots from the castle wall had ceased, the thick straw shield was cast aside, allowing the men carrying the barrel to move more freely.

Porthos saw what they were doing and, with a roar, threw himself in their midst. Athos followed. The darkness turned the combat into an even more dangerous undertaking, with no quarter given. Athos despatched two men in quick succession, one stabbed through the throat, his blood spraying out from an ugly gash, the other he took with a clean thrust to the heart. But then a giant of a man sprang towards him, wielding a sword thicker and heavier than the one Athos carried, and he was suddenly hard pressed, forced to give ground.

A body on the ground caused him to stumble, falling backwards as his opponent’s sword stabbed at suddenly empty air. Athos rolled, ignoring the pain in his already-injured sword arm. The darkness was now his friend, not his foe. Around him, metal rang against metal and he could here the laboured grunts of men locked in combat. The element of surprise was gone now, but those first, lethal volleys had dropped men like over-ripe fruit from a tree and evened the odds considerably. But whether they’d done enough to carry this mad plan through, Athos had no idea. He very much doubted that the Queen’s enemies were now strong enough to take the Château de la Lune, so at least the primary objective of the rear guard had been achieved.

He rolled again as the bloodied steel of the giant’s sword struck at his face with the speed of a snake. He reminded Athos of the equally huge man who had faced Treville in the tunnels, brothers, perhaps, both with a violent enmity towards a Spanish Queen.

The man raised his sword again, and this time Athos was sure he was staring death in the face. He raised his arm to parry the blow, but his grip was weak, and he could feel the wet slick of blood on his arm. Steel slid against steel and Athos knew this was not a trial of strength he was going to win. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Athos tried without success to parry the blow, when out of the darkness loomed Porthos, barging into the man with all the finesse of a bar-room brawl, and there was none more skilled in such fighting than Porthos du Vallon.

Granted a reprieve he had not expected, Athos struggled to his feet and transferred his sword to his left hand, knowing the right would not serve him now. He glanced around, finding it increasingly difficult to distinguish any individual combats in the general mêlée, but then a flickering light caught his attention.

Men were advancing up the track, holding aloft torches.

It was not just the castle’s besiegers that had been caught between a rock and a hard place. It seemed that their position had now become even more precarious.

*****

“It’s the villagers!” Philippe de Beaune declared, wild elation in his voice.

A break in the clouds allowed weak moonlight to illuminate the track up to the castle, and Athos could see that the advancing group was indeed carrying a motley assortment of weapons, some better suited to bringing in the crops, but he had no doubt that the men would use them to good effect.

The sight of some 20 – 30 men, all armed, no matter how eccentrically, was enough to turn the tide in their favour.

“Get rid of those barrels!” Treville ordered, and Porthos and d’Artagnan promptly made a dash for the one lying against the gates, and with Treville, Athos and Philippe providing what cover they could, the barrel was rolled to the edge of the track and kicked off into darkness.

Athos heard the wood break on contact with the rocks below, spilling its lethal contents far and wide. The second soon followed.

The besiegers had lost the will for a fight and were now simply trying to escape. But the villagers had spread out across the track, and had already thrown three men to their certain death. Others had been attacked with pitchfork and billhook.

“We need prisoners!” Treville yelled. “Keep some alive if you can!”

In the ensuing struggle, that wasn’t the easiest order to obey, but Athos was able to use the handle of a spent pistol to club someone on the back of the head as they turned to flee, and Porthos was able to knock another man out with one blow of his large fist. Their captives were securely trussed with belts taken from their dead comrades and tossed to one side, while Treville continued to bark orders in the voice he used on new recruits in the garrison, employing a tone that never failed to instil order in even the most unruly of gatherings.

Treville turned his attention to Athos for a moment. “Sit down before you fall down. And keep that arm up, you’ve got blood dripping from your hand.”

Despite his weariness, Athos found it hard to hold back a grin. Treville was in his element on the occasions he was able to take the field with his men. The captain was ill-suited to the political games he was often forced into playing, and a fight seemed to take years off him every time. As their enemies had been thoroughly routed, Athos allowed himself the luxury of a seat on the thick straw shield, cradling his injured arm and trying to keep his hand upright while Treville and Philippe de Beaune took charge of the final stages of raising the siege, the musketeers happy to defer to the young vicomte. Allowing the villagers to return to their families had been a good move. The de Beaune family were unlikely to have any issues with the loyalty of those who held land from them after this night’s work.

After quietly conferring with Treville, Philippe called up to Aramis, “Open the gates!”

The castle’s defenders quickly did as they’d been bidden, and musketeers came out of the gates to take charge of the prisoners and help the wounded. 

Porthos held down a large hand to Athos. “Come on. You need some of Aramis’ needlework.”

Athos grimaced, recognising the truth of his friend’s words. The cut on his arm needed cleaning and stitching.

Inside the castle, the courtyard bustled with activity. He could see some wounded, but no bodies laid out. It seemed the defenders had been careful. From the reports they were no receiving, three of the villagers had been injured in the fight, but there had been no deaths. Porthos helped draw off his bloodied jacket and pull his shirt over his head. Blood had soaked through the sleeve of his linen shirt. One of the men hauled up a bucket of cold water from the well and used it to wash the mess from Athos’ body.

Aramis inspected the wound, cleaned it with some alcohol that Athos would much preferred to have drunk and then proceeded to stitch the long, deep cut closed. After he’d bounded the wound with fresh cloth, Aramis commented. “You were lucky. How you managed to climb and fight with that wound, I’ll never know.”

“I didn’t even feel the pain,” Athos admitted. What he kept to himself was that it was now hurting like the devil himself had been jabbing at him, but that observation would be a churlish reward for Aramis’ careful attention.

“Well you’ll be feeling it now,” Aramis said, offering him the flask he used for his medicinal alcohol. “I saw you eyeing this up. One mouthful, then get yourself some fresh clothes. We need to report to the Queen.”

“It’s safe to go up there now,” Matty Fournier declared appearing beside him and earning Athos’ undying gratitude by handing him a flagon of wine.

Athos took a long drink, feeling the wine chase the warm spirit down to his gullet. “How is the Comtesse?”

“No longer threatening to feed her husband’s cock to her dogs.”

Aramis laughed. “If women bore a grudge like that for long, we’d long since have died out. Are you going to enlighten us as to the outcome?”

“Boy and a girl. Ugly little sods,” Matty said. 

Still holding onto the wine, Athos nodded his thanks to Matty and made his way up to his room in the search for fresh clothes. Treville arrived shortly afterwards carrying a long slip of cloth fashioned into a sling. Athos accepted it gladly as his arm was still throbbing badly, although the wine had blunted the edge of his pain. Treville quickly rummaged in his baggage for a jacket that wasn’t covered with the blood of his enemies.

“They were Huguenots,” he announced. “The villagers heard them talking. We’ll confirm it with the captives, but it seems certain. When they failed in their objective on the road, they decided to fall back to here, already knowing they had a sympathiser in the castle and a back door into its heart. The rest, as we presumed was simply a distraction.”

“Did the villagers rescue their children?”

Treville nodded. He picked up the wine flagon and drank from it. “It turned out well in the end. The vicomte’s decision to let his people return to their families was a good one. Matty Fournier isn’t the only one I’d happily commission into the Regiment. But there are things I need to know from him before we see the Queen.” He put a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “Get cleaned up. We don’t want the Queen’s ladies throwing a another fit.”

Athos wondered how the young man would react to his new half-brother and sister. His question was answered shortly when they delivered their report to the Queen in her friend’s bed chamber. Hélène de Beaune looked tired but happy, her two babies cradled in her arms. Her husband’s eldest son stood by the bed, looking down at them with a fond expression on his face.

When they presented themselves to the Queen, Treville made much of Philippe’s part in the defence of the castle, but in truth, there was no exaggeration in his words. The boy had fought well and displayed admirable leadership. His stepmother looked at him with pride in her eyes.

The audience was kept mercifully short, with Treville careful to assure the Queen and the comtesse that the Huguenot threat had been dealt with but that the castle’s defenders would remain alert for any additional threat. The musketeers each swept a deep bow and retired from the chamber.

“Can I have another drink now?” Athos asked, trying hard not to sound plaintive.

The question earned him an amused looked from his comrades and an eye-roll from his captain but Treville took pity on him and ushered him into their shared chamber, with an instruction to the vicomte to ensure that the prisoners were well guarded and that the garrison remain vigilant, in accordance with the assurances given to the Queen.

Once the door had closed behind him, Athos dropped all pretence and sank wearily onto one of the beds, finally allowing the pain to claim him.

Treville poured a large goblet of rich, dark wine and handed it to him. Using his left hand, Athos accepted the drink gratefully and drained the contents in three long swallows. Treville refilled the goblet and then poured dome for himself.

“I would not wish to do that climb again,” he commented.

Athos raised a tired laugh. “There were times when I felt I would not succeed in that particular venture at all. Do you think the danger has passed?

Treville nodded. “I will question the survivors more thoroughly tomorrow, but yes, I think the Queen is safe now – or at least as safe as she ever is in a country that will always harbour suspicions where a daughter of Spain is concerned. Tomorrow I will send world to the King and request a further company as escort for our return.”

“We were lucky that they didn’t take advantage of the secret ways in this castle simply to kill the Queen in her bed,” Athos said, sipping more slowly at the wine.

“There were some secrets the vicomte kept to himself. Boucher had been encouraging him in his tricks to learn more about the hidden passages, but he had kept that knowledge to himself. If Porthos and Aramis had not become suspicious on their ride, this would have ended very badly, both for him and the Queen.”

“How in God’s name did he move that furniture by himself?”

“By slipping a wheeled trolley underneath.” Treville shook his head ruefully. “It seems this castle is well set up for such tricks. I gather even his illustrious ancestor who frowns down on us from every wall wasn’t such a dry stick as he appeared.”

Athos leaned back against the wall and allowed his eyes to fall shut. With two babies to coo over, their return to Paris was unlikely to be imminent and for that he was thankful. But if they were to remain, the Queen would need to be housed in a more easily secured room. 

He took a more measured drink of the wine and felt the warm weight of Treville’s hand on his thigh. He hoped the remainder of their stay in the Château de la Lune would be somewhat less eventful, and perhaps the young vicomte could even be persuaded to explain how some of his other tricks had been performed.

He raised his glass. “Let us drink to a safe delivery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, folks! For anyone who's interested, the Enid Blyton book some parts were taken from was The Secret of Moon Castle. It was a huge favourite of mine as a kid.


End file.
